Capitol Nights
by Woodspurge
Summary: <html><head></head>This is a very dark story about how far Haymitch will go to protect those he decides he's responsible for.</html>
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable elements of this story, and I make no financial gain from it.

Author's Note: This story will earn its M rating in later chapters. It's not intended for kids.

**Capitol Nights**

He'd hoped it might be different with them. He'd never _thought_ it might be different, for he'd lived through far too much to be that naïve. But more and more, as their competitors died and it looked like they might actually make it to the end, hope had come to torment him. When they'd been declared Victors- both of them! - the wild elation he'd felt had lasted a good two hours before dreadful hope stole back in, now desperate and panic-touched. _At least they're alive_, he'd told himself constantly. It became his silent mantra: _At least they're alive._

Of course, it wasn't different for them. Nor did Snow wait long to spring his trap. Two weeks was their grace period, the same amount of time he himself had once been given before a different trap had snapped what was left of his life into useless shards.

Now here they were in his house, holding hands, the boy very pale and the girl actually _crying_. And why waste time? Let's have done with this.

"You two have had a visit from Snow."

"Haymitch, he- you wouldn't believe- the _dirty_ old-" Katniss can't seem to get a complete sentence out, so great is her shock and unhappiness.

Peeta squeezes her hand, murmurs, "Hush." To Haymitch he speaks in a grimly determined voice. "Snow wants to prostitute us in the Capitol." He stops, flustered, humiliated and scared, but trying to be strong for the girl's sake. Haymitch quietly waits for the second part of it, realizes Peeta can't bring himself to say it.

So he nods and says, "And- he threatened to kill your families if you don't cooperate."

"How did you know?" Peeta's eyes widen and he takes a small step forward. Haymitch remembers why it has always been so hard not to give a damn about this boy. "Did he do this to you, too?"

"No. My family was killed because I outsmarted the Capitol during my Games. I embarrassed them, and two weeks later my mother, my little brother, and my girl were all dead." He rubs his hands together briskly to indicate how quick and easy this bit of revenge, punishment, discipline had been for Snow. _Over-done-with-gone_. He had thought at first that Snow had killed him, too, and reflects with dull horror that being a ghost feels like not being able to move or breathe as your insides begin to rot. "What you need to take from that is that Snow doesn't make idle threats. He _will_ kill them if you don't do what he wants."

"So what are we going to do?" Peeta looks at him as though he might have some brilliant idea that will get them out of this snare. It's funny, in a bleak way. He supposes he has given them some cause to expect brilliant ideas, or at least clever improvisations. And Peeta's been an optimist from the first day they met.

Katniss, his fellow pragmatist, saves him from having to say it. "We do what he wants," she says miserably. "What else can we do? He'll kill _Prim_."

So, that's it then. He takes a drink and regards them over his bottle: fiery, stubborn, brave Katniss; and responsible, caring, idealistic Peeta. He imagines Peeta living in an apartment in the Capitol for most of each year, entertaining wealthy men and women Snow sends to him, smiling and likeable and courtly because that's the persona Haymitch has helped him create; meanwhile learning that people only want one thing from him. Eventually, he'll learn that he is only good for one thing.

And Katniss- well, she will become just like her former Mentor, who it turns out still hasn't ever been able to save anyone. Had he really thought he could?

"There might be one thing I could do," he says.

"Really?" Katniss asks, wiping her eyes and leaning forward a bit.

"What?" Peeta asks at the same time, sounding so _hopeful_, like he'd just _known_ Haymitch would come up with something.

Haymitch hesitates then, because his idea seems impossibly weak in the face of such hope, and it's a horrible idea, but it's all he has left. "Want a drink, sweetheart?" he asks, offering Katniss his bottle.

Katniss looks like she is considering it, stalling just as much as he is. She doesn't know what his idea is, but she doesn't dare let herself believe that it will save them. Not this time. She reaches out and takes the bottle from him, takes a swig and hands it back, wincing at the burn. Peeta bounces a disapproving look from one of them to the other, but doesn't say anything. Haymitch smiles at the teenage-girl-turned-murderer standing in his living room, and raises a questioning eyebrow at Peeta. The boy shakes his head impatiently, of _course_, but it would have been bad manners not to offer. Effie would be so _proud_ of him, he thinks sardonically.

"I'm going to try something. I know people in the Capitol. I'll try to go there and talk to them. It probably won't work. You two should… prepare yourselves, I guess." That's as much as he's going to tell them. If this works, let them think that he's just that good at persuading people. Let them think that forever.

He perches on the edge of a darkly shining wood chair with a cushioned seat and back covered in green velvet, and from that vantage point he looks nervously around himself. There are three conversation groupings of similar chairs around low coffee tables. All of the other chairs are empty. There's a table against the wall with a silver pot of coffee, cut crystal decanters of various liquors, a plate of fruit pieces speared with toothpicks (each toothpick has a colorful foil fringe on the end), and no less than three large platters of pastries. All of this at 9am on a Thursday morning. Haymitch keeps expecting a delegation of Capitolites in sequined business suits to descend upon the anteroom.

Maybe then he could slip away unnoticed and forget this idea ever occurred to him. He badly wants to get himself a drink, but even more he wants to just kind of sink into the floor and rematerialize a safe distance away from the creature in the next room. Like maybe back in his house in Twelve.

The door opens, and even though he was expecting it he startles so violently that he nearly falls out of the chair. Gods, he doesn't want to go in there. He takes a couple of deep breaths and stands up. Halfway across the room he realizes he's heading for the liquor and has to redirect his steps to the door, which still stands mockingly open.

He steps in, crossing the threshold with an atavistic little shiver. Already he can smell the sick-sweet bouquet of Snow's cologne. It's the same cologne he was wearing twenty-four years ago, and it still smells like blood to Haymitch. It smells like his family's blood, like an unfinished rough wood floor soaked with blood and-

"Close the door," a voice commands.

Haymitch grasps the doorknob in a shaking hand and inadvertently slams it shut, cringing at the loud bang. "Ah, fuck," he mutters. Blood and gunshots and the old monster, smiling a knowing smile at him.

"Do have a seat, my boy," Snow says jovially. "We have things to talk about."

And so Haymitch comes forward and sits and feels roiling hate and black, all-consuming despair.

Snow looks at him shrewdly. "My boy, the people you've worked yourself into such a state over have been dead for twenty-four years. Does that help?"

Bizarrely, it does. He nods and swallows thickly. "I'm here about Katniss and Peeta."

"You've come to offer me your tail in place of theirs."

Has he? Is that really what he's doing here?

Snow nods as though Haymitch had confirmed it. "An intriguing offer. You've always been a clever boy. So- enlighten me: why would my Capitolites want to bed a forty year old drunk when they could have two fresh, pretty teenagers?"

"They want sensationalism," Haymitch replies. He's had a lot of time to think about that question, and this is the one angle that might work. "They want a sappy love story. They want to gawk at those two kids like they're animals in a cage and collectively coo every time they kiss."

"Yes, you're a clever boy," Snow says musingly. "I had considered that, of course. You're a bit long in the tooth, but you look decent enough when you're cleaned up. How about a threesome, hmm? You and Katniss and Peeta. Now that would be sensationalism, wouldn't you say? And just imagine the interviews I could make each of you give."

_Shit_. "They're just kids. I'm the same age as Katniss's _mother_."

"And yet, I could make you do it. I could make them do it. Do you believe that, my boy?"

"Yes." He doesn't believe it, actually. He's pretty sure there's nothing the old devil could do that would persuade him to do _that_ with either of the kids. But he's not fool enough to invite Snow to try.

Snow looks mildly disappointed at his response. "Alright then, Haymitch. I accept your offer, for now. You will do everything the client asks. You will be perfectly compliant. If even one client complains about you, Katniss or Peeta will be making it up to them. Do you understand?"

Haymitch nods automatically, as he would to any command given by an all-powerful sociopath sitting less than five feet away from him. He's stunned, and he feels a sudden, panicky urge to call his words back. He hadn't meant it, right? It's clearly a horrible idea. Why the hell should it have to be him, anyway?

Get a grip, you damn coward. It's only sex. And you're hardly a virgin. So just get a grip.

"Our business is concluded. Wait in the anteroom, and someone will be along to take you to your new quarters and explain how everything works."

The last is said with a slightly suggestive tone and a cruel, condescending smile. Haymitch feels no urge to rise to the bait. Snow is gesturing to the door, and he gets up and leaves quickly. True, he backs out so he can keep an eye on Snow. Anyone would. Anyone who had smelled the blood and heard the words 'kill the girl' over and over for twenty-four years would.


	2. Miss Lilac

Author's Note: This chapter is rated M. It's dark and harsh and disturbing. There will be non-con and there will be torture. If you're too young for that stuff, please do not read this chapter.

Note 2: If this story gets removed I will probably post it to . For now, I'd rather avoid that site because it is plagued with PWPs and I think that's what most readers are looking for when they go there.

Finally, thanks go out to my first reviewer. I hope the story stays interesting. And michelle2662, thanks for the follow.

Disclaimer is attached to first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 2**

The car comes to a smooth stop in front of the Lovely Baltic, one of the super-posh hotels this section of the Capitol is known for. There it sits, idling silently, an elongated capsule of neon yellow. If it seems to have no conception of its own tackiness, that's probably because it's awestruck by the strawberry shaped monstrosity of the Lovely Baltic looming over it. Hidden for the moment in the car's backseat, Haymitch laughs, because what else can he do?

His fingers roam restlessly over the small box in his lap. It is the size of a gift box that would hold an expensive pen, and is covered in black crushed velvet. The inside is lined in black silk. Held in the center, in its _bed of silk_, is a three cc. syringe half-filled with pink liquid and ending in a capped needle.

He had been instructed on how to use this (push needle into thigh and slowly depress plunger) and on when to use it (not when the client is watching). He had been told he would 'see results' in no more than two minutes. It's 'pretty potent stuff, ha-ha'. Did he want to try it before his rendezvous, to get acquainted with how it felt? He'd declined, and they hadn't pushed him.

"You probably won't even need it. She's a hot little number! You got a good one to start with," the fool had said with a knowing wink.

The car door is opened by the uniformed driver. "Here we are, Mr. Abernathy. Room 410. Your appointment is in ten minutes. I will return for you in three hours and ten minutes."

Haymitch climbs out of the car, trying to remember the last time someone called him 'Mr. Abernathy'. He thinks the last person to do so might have been his schoolteacher, back before the Games. That kid- healthy, not addicted, with a family and a girlfriend and one or two other boys that he could claim as casual friends- had had no idea that he only had a few weeks left to exist. This is the wreckage, baby.

Getting back to the point, it occurs to him that in a way the Capitol driver in his natty uniform has just given him a new name. He looks up at the hotel's magenta façade and ponders being dressed up in gaudy clothes and renamed on such a day as this.

The car pulls away from the curb as he tucks the velvet case into the inner pocket of his jacket, the same pocket he usually keeps a flask in. All he's had so far today is a single shot of rum and a dose of Ciprolen to dull the cravings. That's all he'd been allowed to have. With a sigh, he squares his shoulders and walks into the lobby, telling himself it's likely not going to be as bad as he fears. He's already decided that he will forget the fact that this woman has paid Snow a hefty sum for what is about to happen. He'll treat it as just a bit of casual, meaningless sex with a moderately attractive partner whose name he'll forget; no big deal, I almost always do this once or twice during my annual sojourns the city.

He takes the elevator to the fourth floor and finds the room. He debates the merits of finding a semi-private alcove to inject the pink stuff before knocking on the door. Sooner begun, sooner done, after all. Before he can decide, the door flies open.

"Come in, darling, come in! Welcome!" His appointment enthuses.

She has light purple hair that falls in ringlets all the way down to her ankles. Little purple flowers are woven all through it. Her skin is painted and powdered to the same ghostly shade Effie usually affects. Her eyes are a bright, unnatural purple, as are her lips. She has a bumblebee tattooed on the left side of her face, just below her eye, and it seems to be inset with black and yellow gems. All this, and she's wearing nothing except a diaphanous purple robe over a glimmering purple bikini.

He realizes he is still rooted in the doorway, staring. "Yikes," he says.

She bats her eyes at him. "You like?"

In lieu of answering this question (and it's probably rhetorical anyway, he reassures himself) he takes two steps forward into the room and closes the door.

"You don't say much, do you?" the woman pouts.

"Sorry. Just- startled." Haymitch is trying to figure out how he's going to get a private moment to inject himself. Pretending that he has _chosen_ to sleep with this woman isn't going to work, not by a long shot. He wonders if her bush will be lilac-colored, and winces.

"My, you're a rustic one. I guess it comes from living out in the boonies." Her voice is playful and flirtatious again, and she reaches up to caress his cheek. The pad of her thumb runs lightly over his lips, and he smells lilacs. "Don't worry, honey. I'll teach you all you need to know. I do a lot of first-timers."

She stands on tiptoe and kisses him. He knows what to do with _that_, of course, and kisses her back with as much feeling as he can muster. She presses up against him as they kiss, undulating softly. He is surprised to feel himself responding, and then not surprised at all. If he has to do this, he might as well enjoy it.

She pulls away just long enough to shrug out of her robe, and then her hands are undoing the buttons of his trousers. "Lose the jacket, honey."

He takes it off and drops it indifferently as she pushes his trousers and underwear down. Stepping out of them, he begins to unbutton his shirt of wine-colored silk before she can do it.

"Leave the shirt on for now. The color suits you." Stepping back and looking into his eyes, she takes off her bra. Her breasts are as ivory-pale as the rest of her, but they're also full and perky.

"You're staring again," she teases.

"Shouldn't I be?" he drawls, not looking away. She wants him to stare, and they both know it. "Very nice, Miss Lilac."

She smiles coyly. "Thank you, darling." She reaches down and wraps her hand around his erection. "Let us go to bed. Come, come!" She leads him to the bed, keeping hold of him.

They fall on the bed and kiss again as she runs her fingers through his hair. Every woman he's ever taken to bed has wanted to play with his hair. Every one of them has also been a Capitolite. Haymitch firmly believes that their fixation on his hair is a control thing, a way of reveling in their supposed superiority. His hair is the only modification he'd had to endure; straight golden blond hair was 'fierce', and the dark wavy hair that was natural for him was 'just so _twelve_'. They hadn't just dyed his hair- they'd somehow altered him so that all of his hair _grew in_ blond. When that used to make him angry, he'd only had to think about facial tattoos and implanted jewels to remind himself that hair color didn't really matter. And of course, he'd gotten used to it.

Miss Lilac twirls a bit of it around her finger. In a more normal situation, he'd gently remove her hand and get her mind on something more _diverting_. He's used to it, but enough is enough. This time he thinks better of it, though.

"Like sunlight on a summer evening," she murmurs approvingly.

He strokes her hair in turn, mimicking her gesture. "And yours is the twilight." He feels that he has gotten into the groove of this very easily, and this won't be bad at all while they're doing it. And later, at the apartment, there'll be liquor.

She shimmies out of her panties and tosses them away with a flourish. "Do it to me, honey."

"As you like, Miss Lilac," he acquiesces. He straddles her, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders.

"Oh, honey, call me Maysilee while you're making love to me."

He freezes. "Your name is Maysilee?"

"It is tonight. Come on, honey, I'm ready."

"That's-" He breaks off, catching himself barely in time. _That's sick_, he finishes mentally. There is a roaring in his ears. He can't do this. Literally, he can't do this. But if he doesn't…

"Just a minute," he snaps, getting off her and heading for his discarded jacket.

"What _is_ it?" she whines impatiently, pushing herself up on her elbows.

He keeps his back to her, crouching next to his jacket. Blocking what he's doing, he draws the case from the pocket. "Quick drink. I want this to be _fabulous_, and I get the shakes if I don't have a drink every so often." He can't help putting a sarcastic over-emphasis on 'fabulous', but it will probably sail right over her ridiculous purple head anyway.

"Oh! Yes, of course," she says, sounding cheerful again. "Have all you want, honey. I _was_ expecting you to be a little more buzzed when you arrived." She giggles.

He swallows back the reply he wants to make and stabs the needle into his thigh. After returning the used syringe to the case and tucking the whole shebang into the hidden pocket, he returns to the bed with a slightly feral smile.

"Oh, you're not hard anymore," she pouts.

"Don't you worry about that, my Lilac. I will be."

"Call me Maysilee."

_I'm doing this for Katniss and Peeta_, he reminds himself. He has to protect them. And what does it matter, anyway? He's only about two and a half hours away from drinking himself into oblivion, and then it won't matter at all.

"Alright, Maysilee." He climbs on top of her again, starts to kiss her purple mouth, and then jerks back with a sharp gasp. All at once, he is fully erect again and more intensely aroused than he can ever remember being before. He is panting, the urge to enter her almost unbearable.

"Are you ready… Maysilee?" he asks.

"Oh, Haymitch, I've been ready for twenty-four years. Ever since I first met you. _Take_ me, honey."

_Sicko_, he thinks, but the thought seems distant and unimportant, nearly drowned out by his intense need. He slides into her with a groan. She cries out and wraps her legs around him. "Say my name!"

"Maysilee," he says as he moves in her. "Oh, Maysilee!"

"Yes, Haymitch, yes!"

They roll around, take turns being on top, go slowly and evenly, go fast and frenetically. It goes on and on. He begins to wonder if he's going to be able to cum at all. Every time he feels near the edge, the feeling plateaus and then recedes before slowly building again.

"Oh, Haymitch, you're a fabulous beast!" she cries out with her second orgasm.

"Yeah, Maysilee- you're pretty great, too," he says breathlessly, and she laughs.

On it goes, and what if the three hours is up before he manages to cum? Surely this can't last that long, can it?

Finally, _finally_, he finishes, ejaculating almost painfully inside her as she shrieks through her fourth orgasm. She grabs him tightly and demands, "Tell me you love me, Haymitch."

Knowing what she wants, he says, "I love you, Maysilee."

She kisses him again and then lets him go. He rolls off her and lies flat on his back, catching his breath.

"What time is it?" she asks sleepily. She sits up to look across him at the clock. "Oh bother!" she declares in a surprised, put-out, and generally more wakeful tone. "We've only got twenty minutes left! Oh, _why_ aren't you available for entire nights?"

"I wake up violent," he answers, too weary to care about her knowing something that personal.

"Well, I guess that's a good reason. Come here and hold me for a few minutes before you get dressed. Take off your shirt first."

He sits up, feeling a brief swoop of dizziness at the sudden movement, and takes off his shirt while she watches him. "Now come here," she says. "You've earned rest."

"Okay, Maysilee. Shit. Lilac, I mean. What _is_ your name, anyway?"

"After _that_, anything you want it to be." She laughs, wrapping her arms around him.

"Miss Lilac, then. Suits you," he mumbles. _Empty and mindless; a stupid, frivolous name for a stupid, frivolous person_. He wraps his arms around her and wishes that the clock was on her side of the bed so he could watch the minutes pass.

He is actually drifting off when the gold bracelet on his wrist emits a soft chime. And even though he wasn't really asleep, his breath catches and his heart is suddenly racing. It will even out in a couple of minutes. This is another thing he has gotten used to.

"Gotta go, Lilac," he says brusquely, getting up and gathering his clothes.

"Bye! Until next time!" She blows him a kiss and then lies back with a pretty little yawn.

He dresses and leaves, patting his jacket to make sure he has the case with the syringe.

His driver is waiting at the curb and holds open the door of the canary-mobile for him. "Home, Jeeves," Haymitch says in his best snarky tone, just to spread the good feelings around a bit. The driver's face wrinkles into a moue of distaste, but he doesn't say anything. Feeling a little better, Haymitch gets in.

There is another man sitting on the wide bench seat.

"Hello, Haymitch! So, did you have fun?"

Haymitch bears his teeth in a humorless grin. "I've seen better times, but who has not? And, who are you?"

"I'm Balthamos, your attendant."

"What does that mean?"

"My job is to escort you back to your apartment and check you over- make sure you performed and that you aren't damaged, you know. I can even administer a bit of first aid if you need it, ha-ha, wink-wink." And he winks twice.

Haymitch is starting to believe that Effie is quite sensible and even likeable, relative to everyone else in the Capitol. "Tempting as that all sounds, I'm fine. And I did everything that woman wanted."

"Splendid, splendid! I've still got to check you, my friend, but that'll make things much easier, you know."

"Not your friend," Haymitch says, and turns away to stare moodily out the tinted window. After a few minutes spent in silence, he turns back. "That stuff in the syringe is too strong. You need to give me a less potent version if that's how I'm supposed to _perform_ for these freaks."

"Oh?" Balthamos asks in apparent surprise. He leans forward, and before Haymitch has any idea what he's doing his hand is between the blonds' legs. He takes a quick grope and is withdrawing his hand before Haymitch recovers from his shock.

"Keep your fucking hands to yourself! Shit! Don't fucking touch me!" he barks, breathing too hard.

Balthamos actually has the gall to make an exasperated _tsk-tsk_ sound. "You're not hard now, so you must have been able to finish while you were with the lady. Whyever do you think you need a lighter dose?"

Haymitch stares at him, trying to pour all his rage and hatred into the look. "Don't. Touch. Me."

Balthamos smiles encouragingly, and raises his eyebrows to indicate that he is still waiting for the answer to his question.

"It took more than _two hours_."

"And your companion paid for three hours total. So the booster did exactly as much as it was intended to do. We're really very good at calculating these things."

Haymitch turns back to the window without another word. He begins trying not to think about anything. "Can I have liquor when I get back to the apartment?" he mutters, hating himself for having to ask permission from this odious man.

"After I check you over you can have your nightly ration. Look, here we are now!"

The car comes to a stop, and a moment later the driver opens the door. Haymitch climbs out and follows Balthamos into the building. His apartment is on the twentieth floor. The elevator carries them there in less than thirty seconds, every bit as ruthlessly efficient as the ones in the Tribute building. Once they get there, Balthamos pulls out two keys. He offers one to Haymitch and tucks the other back into his pocket, having produced it solely to show Haymitch that he had one.

"Would you care to do the honors?" Balthamos asks with a grandiose gesture towards the door. Haymitch slants him a disdainful look and unlocks the apartment. They make their way into the living room.

"Alright, Haymitch, take off your clothes and we'll get you checked over."

"I'm fine," Haymitch says, but his tone is resigned. This is going to happen; it doesn't take him any more than one look at this smarmy little idiot to see that.

"Now, now, don't be difficult," Balthamos chides. "There, that's better!" he declares happily as Haymitch begins undressing.

Once Haymitch stands naked in front of him, Balthamos walks a slow circle around him. "I'm going to touch you now just to be sure you aren't hurt."

"Bullshit," Haymitch mutters.

Balthamos goes on as though he hadn't heard. "If you hold still it will be quick and painless. If you are uncooperative, you will be disciplined. Sound fair?"

"We can discuss 'fair' after _you've_ spent two hours fucking a perverted freak."

Balthamos doesn't answer except to put his hands on Haymitch's shoulders. He runs his hands down both sides of both arms, over Haymitch's chest and abdomen, down his sides, all over his back, and down each leg. "No bruises anywhere, good." Then his finger is at Haymitch's anus. Haymitch jerks away with a snarl.

"Keep your filthy hands off me."

"Okay, Haymitch. Just remember that you brought this on yourself." He touches a button on the cuff at his wrist. And they must have been waiting just down the hall, because less than a minute later three men let themselves into the apartment. They go for Haymitch immediately, and two of them grab his arms and force them behind his back. The third hurries to snap cuffs on his wrists.

"Get against the wall. Face the wall," one of them orders harshly.

Haymitch braces himself as well as he can. Clearly they are going to beat him with something. "Four of you, with weapons, and you still have to cuff me? Cowards. You know why you got called in, boys? Because I wouldn't let your perverted friend get his rocks off." He almost manages to twist free, but it isn't enough. Then he feels something hard and cold press against his anus again, feels it push slowly into him. He takes a ragged breath. At least it's not a cock, too cold and too narrow. At least they aren't actually raping him.

Then terrible, blinding, all-encompassing pain courses through him. His whole body convulses, his head knocking sharply against the wall. If they hadn't still been holding his arms, he would have collapsed. He grays out for a few seconds, and then his vision comes back dark and hazy. He retches, and vomit that's mostly bile dribbles down his chin.

"Give him another jolt," someone says.

The agony floods him again and he screams, feet lifting off the floor as his toes curl reflexively. Urine splashes down his legs onto the floor. He falls limp in the guards' grasp, harsh sobs taking the place of his screams.

"Alright, set him down."

They lower him to the floor by his arms, and as soon as they let go he curls onto his side. Between the sobs and the dry heaving, he can barely breathe.

"That was the shock wand, Haymitch. Be good and you won't ever have to feel that again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Haymitch chokes out. Everything still hurts badly, but it's just beginning to dull enough for him to notice specific areas of pain. He feels like he has been torn apart inside, where they shoved the wand. He can't even tell if it's still in him or not. The thought that it might be fills him with sick terror.

"Are you ready for me to remove the cuffs, Haymitch?"

"Yes," he says. _Please._

Balthamos moves around behind him. As soon as his wrists are free he pulls his arms up against his chest.

"Now I'm going to put my finger inside you. I don't have to give you explanations or reasons for anything I do- waste of my time, you know. But, in the spirit of fostering a healthy working relationship between us, this isn't about sexual gratification. See, in and out that quick. I just checked you for bleeding."

Haymitch hadn't even felt it around the residual pain. But it means the wand isn't in him anymore, at least. He relaxes and immediately wishes he hadn't as painful tremors start up in his muscles.

"The pain will wear off in fifteen or twenty minutes. Do you want help cleaning yourself up?" Balthamos asks solicitously.

"_No_," Haymitch replies vehemently.

"Well then, adieu until tomorrow."

Haymitch watches them leave, forcing his eyes to stay open until they're gone. Then he lets the hateful world go dark.


	3. Night Off

Disclaimer is attached to first chapter.

A.N.: Thanks, Michelle! Here it is, then.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 3**

This is one of the quieter bars, dimly lit and very red. Most of the lighting is red. So are the booths, the tabletops, the counters. Quiet but violent-sounding music fills the air, covering the background drone of conversations. The place is only about half full, most of the bar crowd preferring the trendier spots a few streets over. It used to be one of his regular haunts. He sits in a booth in the corner nearest the door, twisting the gold cuff around his wrist and staring at the tabletop. He is trying not to think about anything, hunched over against the wall. He had walked all the way here from the Cell with his eyes on the sidewalk and now he stares at the table only because it happens to be hiding the floor.

"Can I get you anything, honey?" a female voice asks close by, and he grimaces at the condescending, mocking appellation. It shows, then. Anyone can see what has happened to him in the last few days, and what he has done.

"Another whiskey," he says without looking up.

"Coming right up."

He listens to her footsteps as she walks away and whispers to himself, "Not your honey." But she can't hear him and who is he kidding anyway? He fucks (or is fucked by) anyone they send him to. He swallows a couple of times and bites his lip angrily. "Whore. Call it what it is," he hisses at himself, and then pushes further into the corner. He shouldn't have come here. He should have stayed in the Cell. _Stupid_ whore.

"The Cell" is how he thinks of the Capitol apartment where he will be kept for the foreseeable future whenever he isn't in use. Six rooms and a balcony, all decorated and furnished in generic Capitol gaudy. There's the bedroom, with the silk sheets and profusion of gold-framed mirrors he now knows to be ubiquitous in the Capitol; a fitness room with a selection of exercise machines; a bathroom in which every toiletry from shampoo to shaving cream is cinnamon scented; a kitchen, to which his meals and his daily ration of liquor are delivered; a dressing room full of fashionable clothes because Capitolites like to dress their pets up; and the Game room. _They_ call it the living room, but it was there that the rules of this new phase of the Game were explained to him. It was there that they _played_. Sometimes he thinks of it as the Wand Room.

He feels sick with disgust and shame. Lines from an old poem keep swimming across his consciousness. _Oh yes, I am poisoned; Mother, make my bed soon; For I'm sick at the heart and I fain would lie down._ He had been made to eat before he left. He had had to sit in the Game room in front of the screen and eat every bite of the meal that had been prepared for him. This was his warning after skipping the previous two meals. Every single bite, to show that they owned him, that he was utterly under their control. And he had done it. He wishes he could throw up, but it isn't that kind of sick.

The gold cuff will chime when he has thirty minutes left to get back. This is his night off, as long as he obeys his curfew. He doesn't actually know what time curfew is, or how long he has left- longer than thirty minutes, at least. A night off means that he can get drunk- if he has enough time, and if the waitress ever bothers to bring his drink.

"Mitch, my old friend!" He is startled into looking up, and there is Chaff smiling down at him.

"Please just go away," he says tightly, and is humiliated to find himself blinking back tears.

Chaff raises an eyebrow, affecting not to notice. "After searching through five bars to find you? You jest." He swings himself lithely onto the bench across from Haymitch. "So, they finally got you, huh?"

"Oh, screw you, Chaff," Haymitch mutters.

"Little brother, you know me better than that. I'm not gloating, I'm mourning." He flashes his humorous grin. "That said, you're going to have to man up if you want the whiskey."

This is an inside joke between them, with a history as long as their friendship. And with perfect timing, the waitress arrives and sets his drink in front of him. Quick as a flash, Chaff snatches it. Haymitch lets him, playing along. "Hey, _hand_ off!" he emphasizes the singular.

Chaff holds the glass tauntingly. _Man up_, he mouths, raising his eyebrows. Haymitch nods, feigning exasperated surrender, and is rewarded by getting the glass back.

"And a whiskey for you, sir?" the waitress asks, smiling gamely.

"Gin and tonic, my dear lady," Chaff says, with comically overdone chivalry. She nods, tells him it's coming right up, and heads off.

"She called _me_ 'honey'," Haymitch admits, eyeing her speculatively as she walks away. He turns haunted grey eyes back to Chaff. "It's that obvious, isn't it?"

"Oh, is _that_ what you were all pissy about when I found you? That's _so you_, Mitch- as surly as an old junkyard cur, and about as charming. Only you would get all worked up over a pretty little thing like that calling you honey."

"While you're so sought after that District 11 has banished you to the Capitol."

"Only for one week a month. That's usual. Different Victors available each week, but always a variety to choose from." He gestures open-handed. _Gosh, isn't the Capitol thoughtful?_

Dismayed, Haymitch asks, "They're _still_ doing it to you?"

Chaff nods firmly, holding Haymitch's eyes. "Yes. Not as much as they used to, but yes. By the time you've been in it for a few years it's mostly regulars, very few surprises." He pauses, considering what to say carefully. "It gets _bearable_, Mitch. You'll be surprised how quickly it gets bearable."

"Oh, I doubt that." He takes a few gulps to steady himself. He _will not _cry in front of Chaff. After a moment, he says bleakly, "Just tell me, is everyone in the Capitol so _sick_?"

"You're talking about wealthy aristocrats who unwind by screwing district slaves." For a moment the humorous façade slips as Chaff looks around the bar, eyes dark and brooding. "It's easy enough to guess how they caught you. But, damn it, Mitch, I thought you told me you were never going to _have_ kids."

"It's not like that. It's not like that _at all_. If I'm any relation to those kids, I'm the fucked up uncle everyone hopes will forget the date of the get-together."

"And yet, here you are," Chaff says, almost accusingly.

Haymitch doesn't reply, doesn't even shrug.

"Are they worth it?"

"I don't know. But, they _have_ to be. Shit, they're all that's left." His voice takes on a note of steel that draws a slight approving nod from his companion. He doesn't notice. "Better me than them. They still might be able to do something, if the Capitol doesn't destroy them first. What can I do? What have I ever been able to do?"

"Well, you surprise me. And here I thought the only good traits I could attribute to my best friend were mulish stubbornness, animal cleverness, and a prodigious ability to hold his liquor."

"Alas, poor Chaff. So classy, and condemned to associate with such rabble."

A soft, musical chime sounds, and both of them look at the golden cuff. Haymitch gulps down the remainder of his drink and throws some money on the table. "See you around?" There's the smallest hint of desperation in the question.

"Not for a while, little brother. I go back to 11 the day after tomorrow. Cashmere's in town, but I doubt you're that desperate for company." He stands up and the two men embrace. "Be strong," Chaff mutters before they separate.

Haymitch mouths, _You, too._ Then he turns and walks briskly out of the bar. Somewhere between the booth where Chaff has sat back down and the door leading out onto the busy sidewalk, his eyes once more sink to the ground.


	4. Wenceslas

**Capitol Nights, chapter 4**

Chapter four (Wenceslas) is another M-rated chapter. It's every bit as harsh as chapter 2- and then some. I went back and forth on this, but I can't cut it. It's important. However, it's _not for kids._ I'm pretty sure it would get me booted off , so I've posted it as a stand-alone on . If you're interested, here's the address: ?no=600095451. And if you'd rather not, chapter 5 is now up on this site.

Okay, let's try that again. Apparently I can't put the url of the story here, but it's on adult fan fiction dot org under Woodspurge.


	5. Old Friends

Author's Note: This chapter is rated M. It's not nearly as dark as chapters two and four, but it is graphic. If you're too young for this material, please don't read it.

AN2: Jga and PuzzlesolverDramaqueen, thanks for the follows! And Nazzli, there will be a lot more of Peeta and Katniss in coming chapters, don't worry. Stay tuned!

Disclaimer is attached to first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 5**

This is the eleventh night. Haymitch feels jumpy, standing outside of the hotel room. He's been jumpy all day. Hunger gnaws at his stomach. He'd tried to eat the meals sent for him, but he hadn't been able to get down more than two or three bites before he'd leaned over and been sick. Everything tasted the _same_. The only thing that didn't taste the _same_ was the liquor. He's not ready for this, not after last night. But the syringe in its velvet case rests in his pocket, and ready or not he knocks on the door.

The door opens, and he is shocked. He wouldn't have thought that possible anymore. He takes an involuntary step back.

"_Effie_?" he asks, gray eyes hurt and disbelieving.

"Haymitch, come in!" Effie chirps, gesturing expansively. She glances back and forth up the corridor and gives him a meaningful little tilt of her head. _Well?_

Numb, Haymitch comes forward. Effie shuts the door and comes to stand in front of him. A hint of her familiar scent reaches him, sandalwood mixed with something unidentifiable. He turns his face away.

"Why, you're _sober_. That's a pleasant surprise."

He turns back to her. "They've got me on a ration, princess. Aren't you lucky?" The hurt vulnerability she'd thought she saw at first is completely gone. It's as though all that ever existed here is this snarky, arrogant man with the golden blond mane and the tracing of diamonds on his ear. "So, shall we?" he says insinuatingly with a pointed glance towards the bedroom.

Effie gives him a considering look. "If only you could be as enthusiastic about the rest of your duties as a Victor."

He winces slightly, but the jagged smile comes right back. "What are you even doing here, princess? I would think this would be a little… _redundant_ for you."

She blushes slightly. "Good sex is never redundant," she says primly. Capitolites _can_ say such things primly. In fact, the phrase sounds so practiced that Haymitch finds himself wondering if they teach it in school here, alongside other favorites like, 'Vulgarity is a mask the ignorant hide behind.'

"Well, then," he says. "Wanna screw?" Just to watch her reaction. This is so bizarre. They should bait each other for at least a half hour. It's their version of foreplay, after all.

"You're incorrigible. Oh well, at least I won't have to worry about you passing out on top of me this time," she huffs, heading for the bedroom.

He follows. "I never passed out on top of you."

"How would _you _know?" She sits on the edge of the bed and begins undoing the myriad of catches along her knee-high stilettos.

"I suppose I'll still have to deal with your running commentary. Hardly seems fair." He takes off his shoes and begins undoing his cravat. He's very thankful that Effie isn't the sort who wants to undress him herself.

He finishes undressing well before she does, which gives him time to sprawl on the bed and watch her struggle with the laces on the back of her corset. He could offer to help, but why start now?

This still doesn't make sense, but the last thing he wants to do right now is to think about context. He'll pick it apart later, because that's how his mind works. He's never been able to leave well enough alone. For now, he watches Effie undress and lets her distract him.

She's always been good at that.

She finally gets the corset off, giving him what passes for a dirty look in Effie-land. It's kind of adorable. _Funny_, he means. She shucks out of her skirt, muttering something in which the word 'hick' is clearly discernable.

He yawns showily. "While we're young, princess."

"Move over, you oaf."

She slides into bed next to him and gives him her hesitant little smile that's as good as shorthand. _Kiss me already! _She doesn't like making the first move, never has.

He kisses her, keeping his eyes open just in case his treacherous mind tries to forget it is _her_. His hands roam over her, heavy and rough, and she purrs even as they continue to kiss. They break apart, and her hand goes right to his hair. But it's Effie, and it's alright. She cards her fingers through his hair and starts talking in the soft shiny voice that she only uses in a certain type of situation.

"You look good, Haymitch. You should try to stay sober more often, you really should. Your eyes are such a nice shade of gray, like the sky before a thunderstorm. Really too nice to be bloodshot all the time."

"Thanks," he says sarcastically. He rubs his thumbs over her nipples, earning a little moan that breaks up the flood of words nicely. Usually he tunes her voice to an oddly pleasant background drone. It's strange, but she more than makes up for it. Tonight, though, her voice is a real turn on. Every word is _Effie_.

"Diamonds suit you. I always knew you'd clean up nicely if you would just listen to me and your stylists. Gold and diamonds."

He shakes his head to free his hair from her hands and then nips her neck. She throws her head back in invitation.

"Oh, Haymitch, that's lovely. Try and leave a mark, won't you? I so enjoy-" She breaks off with a little cry as he bites down on a little pinch of skin hard enough to draw a drop of blood. "Oh, _thank_ you, you're very considerate tonight, very good."

He pushes her over onto her back, trails one hand slowly down her body. His fingers ghost over her throat, over one of her breasts, down her ribs.

"Oh, I'm so glad I was able to see you tonight. It's really been an _ordeal_ trying to get an appointment. Haymitch, dear, would you believe they kept me waiting _three days_? Me!"

He kisses her again to cut off that line of commentary. "Shut up, princess," he breathes against her lips.

She starts to say something, and breaks off with another moan as his hand slides between her legs and begins to stroke her. "Oh! Oh, that's _lovely_…"

She's already wet and ready, but he finds himself wanting to make this last. He never even considers taking the injection. Eleven nights, ten strangers; being raped on thick hotel carpets and having two-hour long drug enhanced fucks that leave him utterly exhausted and painfully ashamed. Natural, consensual sex isn't what he wants- that would be to curl up somewhere dark and quiet and alone and drink himself into oblivion. But maybe this isn't a half bad second choice.

"Effie," he says softly.

"Haymitch?" She looks up into his eyes. Hers are bright green, her natural eye color.

"I'm glad you're here," he tells her, sinking into those eyes.

She smiles, and then startles him by throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down. He almost does fall on top of her, and she's kissing along the line of his jaw and flicking her tongue against his skin in quick little licks. He growls his arousal and slides a finger into her. He slides it in and out until she's forced to break off what she's doing. "_More_!" she pleads.

"As you like it, princess," he growls. Withdrawing his hand, he shifts and enters her. She arches her back and bucks against him. Her nails scratch down his back. He matches her rhythm with the ease of long practice. As soon as she settles a little, moans trailing off into breathy little gasps, he grabs her hips in his strong hands and rolls them. On top now, she tosses her head and he feels her first orgasm crash through her. It nearly pulls him over the edge, but he manages to hold on, groaning. Her nails scratch down his upper arms as she bounces up and down. He admires her breasts bouncing above him before reaching up to squeeze one. She hisses and sinks her nails into his other arm.

"Oh, so _now_ you want to play rough," he says with a throaty chuckle.

His hands find her shoulders and he takes a deep breath- which isn't exactly easy at this point in the festivities- and then surges up. She goes over with him on top of her, slamming onto her back with her head hanging off the edge of the bed. "Oh, _Haymitch_!" she cries as she crests again, bucking wildly.

The trick of that move is to stay inside her while they topple, and he doesn't always manage it. Tonight he does, and his own orgasm hits him seconds after hers. He rolls over next to her, and they both lay there panting.

"That was-" he pants.

"_Amazing_," she finishes, just as breathless. Then she laughs, turning onto her side and propping herself up on an elbow. "You're such a pretty thing when you're cleaned up properly."

"Don't you _ever_ shut up?" His exasperation is only half feigned.

She shakes her head. "If I keep talking long enough I'm _sure_ it will have a civilizing influence on you."

"Why _are _you here?" he asks. The afterglow has already worn off, and so decisively that he thinks he only imagined it anyway. He gets up and starts getting dressed. "Why would you _pay_ for something you've had for free already? Are you enjoying the power-trip, princess?" Damn it, he'd actually felt _alright_ for a minute or two. It comes to him that Effie would have learned to mindfuck right alongside her _peers_.

"I've just come from seeing the children." She sits up, stretches with feline grace, and looks rather dispiritedly between him and her button-and-clasp-riddled clothes. Deciding that there's no help to be had here, she reaches for her skirt. "They asked me to check on you. You've got them very worried, poor dears."

Haymitch falters in the act of buttoning up his shirt. His breath catches painfully, and for just a second it seems he can't remember how to breathe. "The children? Katniss and Peeta, you mean?"

"How many others do you have? Can you stop being boorish for one minute and do up these clasps for me?"

"They're not here, are they? They can't be here! Oh fuck, they _can't_ be."

"Mind your language!" she admonishes.

"_Fuck_ my language! Where are they?" He begins pacing back and forth, the rage sparking from him like electricity. He pauses in front of the bureau and stares wild-eyed into the gilt-framed mirror.

Using the opportunity to catch his eye, Effie says cautiously, "Easy, dear. Hush. They're-" She breaks off with a hastily stifled scream as he gives a yell of incoherent rage and smashes his fist into the mirror.

"Haymitch! Haymitch, stop!" she pleads as he upends the whole bureau with one heave. But he's beyond listening, and the two or three other times she's seen him have a fit like this she's been able to leave quickly and send someone else to deal with him. He picks up the wingback chair and hurls it into the wall with frightening strength. There's only her this time, but he could tear her apart.

Having destroyed all of the furniture within his immediate reach, Haymitch sinks to the floor panting and muttering. "Fucking lying bastards." He twitches the hair out of his eyes with angry impatience. Just as Effie is beginning to relax a little his hand comes up to his bejeweled ear and he tears one of the diamond studs loose and drops the bloodied gem indifferently to the carpet.

"Stop it!" Effie yells, and without conscious thought she flies from the bed and crashes to her knees beside him, almost tripping in her haste to reach him. She grabs his wrist. "They're fine! The children are fine! They're at home in District Twelve!"

He pulls his wrist free and distractedly licks the blood from his fingers. Even in this situation, Effie winces.

"Really?" he asks, staring at her with scary intensity. "Tell me the truth, Effie. Please. Where are they _really_?"

"They're in 12. Goodness, where else would they be? Haymitch, your manners are atrocious."

He just continues to stare at her. Slowly, he relaxes. "I believe you," he says. He sighs, looks from her to the smear of scarlet remaining on his hand, and wipes his hand on his trousers with a little shrug.

"Oh Haymitch, do you actually think that's better than licking them?"

"Well, princess, maybe you ought to just fuck other Capitolites, then," he flares at her. "Because, hey, you can take the whore out of the cathouse, but you know how _that_ one goes."

"Please don't talk like that," she says, and he's taken aback to see tears in her emerald eyes.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"It's not so bad, is it?" she asks, willing him to reassure her. Except for that first glimpse in the hallway, he had seemed alright. He had seemed fine when they were having sex.

He sighs. "What do you want me to say?"

"Well… I mean, it's only sex, right? And with the best class of people!" Effie summons up a bright smile, but her eyes give her away. Haymitch truly does look beautiful tonight. His freshly washed hair shines under the lights, he's properly dressed in fine clothes, and he's sober but not shaking and ill-looking. Even the few drops of scarlet on the side of his neck and on his shoulder look more like decorative accents than blood. But the image that rises in her mind is that of an indifferently made toy, right before it jitters apart.

"I hate them," he says in the lost, unhappy voice of a child. "They have everything, now."

"Are you quite alright? I told the children you must be fine, the Capitol always takes good care of you when you're here. Oh, please don't fret so. Just try to enjoy yourself, won't you?"

He shakes his head, and then startles her by breaking into song. "Always look on the bright side of life…" His voice is cracked and half-laughing and horrible. He grabs her hands and swings them in time to the words. "Always look on the right side of life!" He caws a loud, unwholesome laugh at her.

"Let go!" she demands, jerking away. He only tightens his hold, grinning at her. "You're scaring me! Let go!"

Abruptly, he drops her hands. The dark hilarity is gone as quickly as it appeared. "Please don't tell the kids, Effie. Leave me that, at least."

"Okay, I won't," she promises. She'd promise anything to soothe him right now. It's not enough, though. She looks for words and comes up with nothing useful, so she just wraps her arms around him and holds him together for a while longer.


	6. Back Home

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 6**

Haymitch trudges through the snow, thinking about nothing except his destination. The archway that marks the entrance to Victors Village looms up out of the fog, and he speaks aloud. "Almost there. S'okay." He bows his head, letting the long hood of his loose black coat fall forward around his face. For a few steps he walks faster, but then he slows again. _Why was he hurrying?_ It had seemed for a second that there was a good reason to complete this last bit of the trip as quickly as possible, but between one step and the next the reason has fled. He doesn't want to think anyway. On he trudges, and on, through the snow.

"Haymitch!" Someone calls out, making him jump. Right, _her_. _Her _and the boy. The ever-loving _kids_. He gets a grip on his suddenly all-too-present thoughts and walks faster.

"Haymitch!" Now she's running through the snow towards him, and at the sound of her rapid footsteps he tenses up and turns toward the figure running at him out of the fog.

"It's Katniss, it's _Katniss, it's Katniss_," he tells himself rapidly. His heart is racing, and he wants to run but she's too close and too fast, and he'll have to fight-

"_Stop!_" He yells at her as loudly and forcefully as he can. Stunned, she skids to a stop perhaps ten feet away. He stares at her from the shadows of the hood, breathing hard. He needs to see, and he rakes the hood back without taking his eyes off her. If there are others sneaking up on him, he's dead anyway.

She is staring right back at him, also tensed and ready to join battle. Then she takes a half step back, away from him, and speaks. "Haymitch? Calm down, okay? I'm Katniss. You're in District 12."

_Katniss. It's Katniss._

He takes a step back, too. "Don't do that. Don't run at me. Shit, do you even _have _a brain in that head of yours?"

"Sorry," she says, sounding like she means it for a wonder.

"Yeah, _sorry_ won't help either of us if I kill you because you come running at me like a fucking tribute," he growls.

"Well, I'm glad to see you, too! Surly old drunk." She cautiously comes closer. "Anyway, what makes you think I wouldn't kill _you_?" The last is spoken teasingly, Katniss trying to dispel the uncomfortable moment.

Haymitch shakes his head, noticing the way her eyes fix on the glitter of diamonds in his mutilated ear. He pulls his hood forward again. "Going home. Go away." He turns and resumes his trek through the snow, which seems to have gotten deeper and thicker. Has he ever been this tired?

"I'm following you," she calls as a precaution, before catching up and falling into step beside him. "We've been worried. What happened in the Capitol?"

Haymitch stops again and scrutinizes her carefully, trying to figure out how much she knows. Effie had promised not to tell, but it's hard to imagine Effie keeping anyone's secrets to herself. _Secrets, what a joke. Whole damn Capitol knows._

"You two lovebirds are safe for now. For the moment." He shakes his head and a strand of blond hair falls in front of his eye. "S'okay."

"How? What did you do?" She asks warily.

"I met with a bunch of people. The rich and powerful." He turns away from her yet again. _Not much further_.

Katniss dogs his steps. "So you- what? Had dinner with rich people and got pretty little gifts from them and convinced them not to turn us into sex slaves? Just like that?"

He finds that he is suddenly furious with her. "Go away," he growls from the depths of his hood, focusing on his steps in the treacherous snow. Mood swings have become his constant companion in the last week or so, but she has no way of knowing that. So hitting her would be a shitty thing to do, he reminds himself.

Still she follows him. They are there, at the house, and he turns around again. "Fuck off," he growls, emphasizing each word. "Go kiss Peeta, or have sex with your erstwhile cousin, or sing lullabies to your precious little sister. Just get out of here."

But Katniss sets her feet and growls right back. "Get a grip. I don't care if you want me here or not. It's been two weeks, Haymitch! For two weeks we haven't known if you were dead or alive, or whether the train was going to show up one morning and take us to our new lives as _prostitutes,_ and all you have to say is we're safe _for the moment_?" She takes a deep breath, puffing out the cold air in a little cloud before she speaks again. "Turn around and open the door, Haymitch. Both of us are going to go inside, I'm going to get you a bottle, and you're going to tell me everything that's happened in the last two weeks." She's attempting to use the same calm, firm tone Peeta had always used when he wanted Haymitch to do something.

Haymitch steps toward her and gives her a hard shove, knocking her down into the endless snow. She's back on her feet in a flash, staring at him wide-eyed. "Haymitch?" He snorts at her derisively, then turns and goes into his house, closing the door between them.

Haymitch goes straight into the kitchen, breathing hard. It's as cold in the house as it had been outdoors. Of course it is. It's midwinter in twelve, and no one has lit a fire in here in two weeks. Shivering, he goes to the cabinets. A panicky feeling that there will be no liquor in the house grips him, and he yanks open the first door hard enough to break one of the hinges. Then he just stares. He had expected the cabinet to be empty, and for a few seconds he's sure he's hallucinating. More than a dozen full bottles of white liquor fill the shelves.

Peeta and Katniss had made sure he'd have alcohol waiting for him when he got back. The ever-loving _kids._ His anger deserts him in a whoosh and his eyes start to tear up.

"Hell's bells," he growls, frustrated and embarrassed and _crying_. Damn mood swings. He grabs one of the bottles on his way to the floor. There he sits, leaning against the cabinet and grimly swigging from the bottle. Ah, equilibrium at last. The familiar and longed-for warmth fills him and surrounds him like an old friend whose deadly affection never wavers.

A quarter of the way through the bottle he remembers that he is tired. He still wears his long coat, but at some point the hood has fallen back. They had made sure he ate in the Capitol, but he still lost weight. His cheeks are more hollowed than they had been, and with the Capitol make-up finally washed off the shadows under his eyes are prominent. Weak light filters in through the kitchen window, and in it he looks pale and ill.

He had come within a hairsbreadth of punching Katniss today. He had almost hurt her.

"Haymitch?" A voice calls out to him as the front door closes. He hadn't even registered the sound of it opening. He ignores such things easily in the Village. The thought of someone coming in while he was asleep and killing him had always held a certain appeal. Considering whom he is and what he does every year, surely there are plenty of people here who hate him enough? It had never happened, and is unlikely to now that he has neighbors, but sometimes he still hopes.

"Haymitch?" It is Peeta, and telling him to go away would be entirely useless. Before Haymitch can think of anything that might actually work, Peeta is in front of him. The boy unhesitatingly reaches out and grabs the bottle. "Give it." Haymitch lets go, and Peeta sets the bottle aside. Then he cuffs the side of Haymitch's head, and hard. "What's gotten into you, Haymitch? You shoved Katniss hard enough to knock her down."

"Sorry," Haymitch mumbles, his ear ringing from the blow. Peeta had hit the right side of his head, and the mostly quiescent piercings awake with a screech of pain.

"Alright," Peeta says with a sigh. He sits back on his heels. "But you don't ever raise a hand to Katniss again, no matter what. I won't tolerate that, you understand?"

"I won't. Hell, _I_ won't tolerate it either. But you need to tell her to leave me alone when she's warned. My control isn't what it used to be."

"Fine, I'll tell her." Peeta's stern look is morphing into one of concern. "You look like hell. What happened?"

"The Capitol happened. Good talk. I'm going to get drunk now. You know the way out."

"It's freezing in here." Peeta gets up and stalks from the room, and a moment later Haymitch hears him moving stovelengths into the fireplace.

"Well, that's one thing taken care of," Peeta announces, brushing his hands off on his pants as he comes back in. He pauses, and Haymitch thinks he's probably checking over the mental list tided 'Caring for the Drunk' and deciding which item to tackle next. How did things get so screwed up and topsy-turvy?

"I brought the supply of wood, by the way," Peeta tells him. "Katniss brought the liquor."

"Lucky, lucky me," Haymitch says sarcastically.

"Lucky isn't what I would call it," Peeta says pityingly. Haymitch doesn't even care right now, not much anyway.

Peeta takes his free hand and tugs on it. "Come on, we're moving to the living room to be near the fire."

Haymitch stands and obediently allows Peeta to lead him to one of the armchairs in front of the fire. He isn't unsteady at all yet. He takes note of that, realizing that he'll have to drink a lot more before going to sleep if he wants to keep the nightmares away. He hasn't slept more than two or three hours at a stretch in the last two weeks, which is probably the reason for the mood swings.

"Here, take off your coat."

Haymitch stiffens. "Undressing me already? Might be better for you if I slept first," he says with a brittle smile as he undoes the fastenings of the coat.

Peeta gives him an odd look. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Haymitch says dismissively. Damn, he is tired, too tired to talk with Peeta without saying stupid things. Fortunately, the boy is as much of an innocent as it's possible for a Victor to be. He hands over the coat and sits down.

"Take your boots off."

Haymitch keeps his mouth firmly shut and works the boots off without bothering to unlace them.

"Socks."

"Were you this bossy before? It doesn't _seem_ like you were."

"Come on, Haymitch. They're soaking wet. Please?" Peeta says the last with exaggerated sweetness.

"Well, how can I say no to that?" Haymitch takes the socks off and tosses them into a corner. "Or to anything else, for that matter."

Peeta sits down on the floor in front of him. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Last night, in the Capitol. Sit in the other chair."

"You need to eat. I brought a couple of sandwiches from the bakery. Is chicken salad okay?"

Haymitch shrugs. "Yeah, whatever." He knows this routine well, and the sooner he eats the sooner Peeta will let him go back to getting drunk.

Peeta retrieves the sandwiches and hands Haymitch his on a chipped plate. Sitting in the other chair he leans forward to warm himself at the fire, glancing over once to make sure Haymitch is eating.

"Haymitch?" he asks after several minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me what happened in the Capitol."

"Just leave it alone, Peeta," he says tiredly. "You can't help, I don't want to talk about it, and you're better off not knowing anyway."

"What if you get worse?"

"It can't get worse for me, and you two are safe for now. I'll tell you if that part changes."

"No, what if _you_ get worse? You shoved Katniss today, and you've never done anything like that before. We're both used to dealing with you when you're drunk, hung over, in withdrawal, in the grip of night terrors, and just pissed off. But you haven't gotten violent with us even once through all that. You said yourself that you're having trouble controlling your responses to things. Whatever happened in the Capitol, I need to know so that we can stop you from getting any worse. What if you really hurt her next time?"

"I was just tired," he says weakly.

"No, Haymitch. You need to tell me."

Haymitch leans back and looks into the fire as he considers. "Snow agreed to hold off on selling you two. The love story is still very popular in the Capitol. There are plenty who are still so titillated by it that they don't want to 'come between' you and Katniss. We can't expect that to last, but just maybe it buys us time to think of something else."

"We _have_ to think of something else. We need to have a new plan ready, Haymitch. We can't let them do that to Katniss."

"Never," Haymitch agrees fervently, taking a long drink from his bottle. "Not to her and not to you, either."

"She should be here. We need to start working on a way out of this. I'm going to go get her," Peeta declares, standing up.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Joy. You just do that. I'll wait right here."

Peeta turns back in the doorway. "Wait- what else?"

"Isn't that enough? What else do you want?"

Peeta shakes his head and returns to his seat. "How about a straight answer? I know that's a little like speaking in a foreign language for you, but try."

It's that tone, the one Katniss tried on him earlier, the behave-yourself-and-come-along-now tone that in a right-side-up world would lose all its power over you before you were a teenager. He's distantly pissed that it _still works_ when Peeta uses it.

"Snow… said he'd hold off in light of the love story, and if something was done to appease the Capitolites who were disappointed with the delay… and to make up for the lost money."

Peeta waits, already seeing where this is going but not wanting to say it. Haymitch is clever, and brilliant improvisations are his specialty. It could still be something less horrible than what it sounds like.

Haymitch finally meets his eyes, and his look is utterly bleak. "Don't make me say it?"

"Snow is selling you, isn't he? It's you instead of us. At least for now."

Haymitch nods. "Thank Katniss for me, for the liquor. Frankly, her gift was a better idea than yours."

"Thank you, Haymitch," Peeta says, his voice tight with emotion. "I'm so sorry. But, thank you."

"It's the lesser of two hells, boy. If you live long enough, you'll learn all about trying to pick the least hideous option."

"I'll make sure Katniss only comes over here with me." That's one thing he can take care of, at least.

Haymitch nods, acknowledging his effort. "Don't tell her about this. She'll just do something stupidly brave and impulsive and get us all killed. Wait- tell her about it and then point her towards the nearest gun-carrying Peacekeeper. Just make sure I'm there. I'd hate to get left out."

"You wouldn't really kill yourself, would you?"

"Not a chance. If I did, you and Katniss would be in the Capitol serving your first johns a week later. I'll protect you for as long as I can."

"That'll have to do for now. Someday, you're going to have other reasons to go on living. We'll think of a way out of this, Haymitch. Please, don't let this define you."

"Don't be stupid. _Don't let it define me?_ By _definition_, I'm a whore, a prostitute, a hustler. _Letting_ has nothing to do with it. I'm a murderer, a Victor, a drunkard, and a whore. Don't pander to me, kid. It doesn't fucking help." He realizes he's almost snarling now, furious again. He doesn't mean to snarl at Peeta, who is, after everything, just a kid trying to fix a situation he shouldn't even have been exposed to. But fury is better than shame, as long as he has the choice.

"Alright," Peeta says quietly. "Alright. Do you need me to leave for a while? If you do, you can tell me. I'll come back later today."

Haymitch regards him, and then turns to the fire. Peeta learns quickly, doesn't he? He's already adjusting his methods to deal with that 'lack of control'. Haymitch sighs dispiritedly and reminds himself that he should be grateful for this instead of finding it mildly depressing.

"I'm fine. I'm not going to hit you."

"Good. Is it okay if I touch your arm?"

"What for?" Haymitch asks, confused.

"I don't want you to develop an aversion to touch. And if I can't prevent that, maybe at least you won't develop an aversion to _my_ touch. If you have just a few minutes of non-threatening physical contact each day while you're here, it might make things a lot easier for both of us in the future."

"Things… things like you taking care of me like I'm a damn kid?"

"Alright, yes, if you need to state it out like that." Peeta sighs and brushes a hand through his hair. "Come on, Haymitch. Don't get defensive, okay? I know you're not a kid. But you are an addict, and afflicted with a whole slew of psychological problems on top of that. You won't deny that?"

"No, I guess I won't." He waves a hand to stave off any further persuasion in this area. "Never mind. Go ahead." He extends an arm towards Peeta's chair, but Peeta gets up and comes to stand beside him before laying a hand on his arm. And that's alright, as long as Haymitch keeps an eye on it.

"It seems a bit bizarre for you to be worrying about an aversion to your touch now, considering that twenty minutes after we first met you were stripping me naked."

"To bathe you, because you were drunk to a point of complete incoherence and you needed help." Peeta runs his hand along Haymitch's forearm as he participates in the distraction the other man already seems to need. "I'm surprised you even remember that."

"I'm good at connecting the dots." He pulls his arm away. "It's fine, Peeta. All I need is some sleep. Which will be a whole lot easier if you _leave._ Or were you going to tuck me in and sing me a lullaby?"

Peeta retreats to the other chair. "I'll stay a while longer if you want," he offers, a bit awkwardly. "I don't mind. What I mean is, maybe you shouldn't be alone right now."

"What you mean is, you have no idea what to do but that messed-up obsessive drive to take care of everyone is telling you that you have to do _something._" He sighs. "This is exactly why I knew better than to tell you. Leave off, kid. Just… leave off."

Peeta gets up and heads for the door, but he turns back at the threshold. "I'll come back tomorrow, Haymitch. We'll think of something. I'm so sorry, I really am."

"Damn you and your fucking worthless apology. Get the fuck out." He doesn't look up, but a minute later he hears the door close softly.


	7. In the Square

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: I've borrowed a quote from the movie 'The Butterfly Effect'. I did not create 'The Butterfly Effect', don't own it, and make no financial gain from it.

N2: I've also borrowed the slur 'mine rat love' from Hufflelit's excellent story, "Haymitch's Games". There is a link to that story on my favorites page.

N3: The final paragraph of this chapter is a somewhat oblique reference to the very imaginative and original story "It's the Apocalypse, Sweetheart", by Ellana-san. That one also has a link on my favorites page.

N4: Thanks to my latest reviewer for their kind words. It's dark subject matter, and I hope I do it justice. And of course, staying in-character is one of the most essential tasks of any fanfiction. So you made my day by saying I've managed it so far.

**Capitol Nights**

His mind is howling this morning. He's in the bathroom, still. He had stumbled in here out of pure habit when he woke up. Taking care of business without any conscious thought is an invaluable skill when conscious thought is just about impossible until he's wrapped himself around the first couple drinks of the day.

Afterwards he had simply lain back down right where he was. He's awake and trying to zone out. He's been crying most of the morning, but he thinks that part's over, at least. He'd like to get out of the bathroom, but he can't open the door. The stupid, childish, irrational conviction persists that someone is waiting just outside. It will be a man, expensively dressed, and he'll be _hard_.

"Wanna sit up?" he murmurs out loud. He doesn't move though, not yet. He thinks he should get up and get it over with. But he just can't work up the will to move. He can smell himself, and he smells like vomit and sex and blood. "No one out there," he tells himself. He swallows and that taste is in his mouth and he lurches to the side and throws up. Then he lies back down, rolling onto his other side so he won't have to look at the mess. He's crying a little, but it's because of the cruddy, slimy taste, that's all.

He's still dressed in the clothes he came back to 12 in yesterday. A creature of the Capitol lies on the white tiles, clad in fine linen and silk and diamonds. He's an insignificant little Capitol plaything, undeniably and irretrievably sullied but not worn out yet, not by a long shot. The man outside will fuck him, Balthamos will remind him who he belongs to and probably torture him a little to make sure the message sticks, he'll get his sedative injection and he'll go back to sleep. This is his daily routine, his job and his only purpose.

In the time between waking up and being prepped for whoever is to have him that night, he counts people he has killed and how each died, struggles to dredge up their faces. There are fifty-three names on that list, so it takes a while.

He casts a glance at the door and closes his eyes again. "There's _no one_ out there," he says again.

"Haymitch?" a male voice calls from outside the bathroom.

Haymitch jerks up on his elbow, eyes going wide and panicky. Balthamos has used the wand on him every single night since he tore one of the diamonds out of his ear. He takes a ragged breath and wills his mind into damage control mode. He'd best not be caught hiding in here.

He sits up and begins undressing rapidly.

"Haymitch, are you in there? Just say something so I know you're alright."

His hands are shaking as he fumbles with the buttons. He can't make out the words the man is saying, other than his name. His tone is ominous, though.

The door opens. Haymitch is frozen in the corner against the bathtub. He has gotten his shirt off, unthinkingly dropping it right on top of the puddle of vomit. He is in the process of undoing his fly. He and Peeta stare at each other for a few seconds before Haymitch looks away and hastily grabs his shirt.

"_Don't_ put that on," Peeta says, taking charge in the nick of time. He doesn't think he could stand to see Haymitch put the sodden shirt on. It feels like the final hideous touch to this picture.

Haymitch drops the shirt again and wipes his hands off on the legs of his pants.

"Let me help you, alright?" Peeta comes forward and crouches down in front of him.

"Then stop looking at me like I'm a hurt puppy."

Holding on to his patience with both hands, Peeta backs up a little and then stands. "I'm going to get you some clean clothes. I'll leave the door open." He waits for a response, but gets nothing. "Haymitch, what happened?"

"You already know what happened. Have you shared with Katniss yet? Bet you have. I bet you ran right over there as soon as you could get away from me."

"I haven't told her anything, and I won't. It's not mine to tell. But you have to pull yourself together. She's going to come over here, _today_, and the three of us are going to think of a way out of this."

"Oh joy, more company. Let me just get gussied up. I'm afraid you'll have to do without my stylist this morning." Haymitch undoes his fly as he talks with a sort of venomous cheer. He stands up to remove his trousers and briefs. He doesn't exactly watch Peeta while he undresses, but his eyes flicker over him more than once.

Peeta supposes the other man is gauging his reaction, or just making sure he hasn't gotten any closer. He's up and down this morning. Five minutes ago he'd been ready to put a vomit-soaked shirt on for the sake of being fully dressed. They need to start thinking about how they can escape, because no matter what they can't let the Capitol do this to Katniss. But right now Haymitch doesn't seem stable enough to even be in the same room with Katniss.

He watches Haymitch turn on the shower and step directly under the spray with a gasp. It takes the water about five minutes to heat up in 12 in the wintertime. Haymitch stubbornly pulls the shower curtain closed and Peeta listens to his steady stream of cursing. It tapers off slowly as the water heats up.

After a few minutes, Haymitch calls, "Are you still out there, boy?"

"Right here," Peeta calls out from the bedroom. He pulls a shirt out of one of the dresser drawers, sniffs it, and drops it into the growing pile of shirts at his feet. It seems kind of perverse to put dirty shirts in the dresser, but maybe that's just his mother talking. He discards another shirt that has obviously had liquor spilled down the front of it, continuing to muse. His mother would be after him with a rolling pin, but for all he knows this is normal. Maybe the clean shirts are in a hamper somewhere.

Nothing further from the direction of the shower, and Peeta pulls open another drawer. This one is full of mostly empty liquor bottles. Giving up on the bureau, he turns to the wardrobe. This is apparently where Haymitch keeps his Capitol clothes, wadded up in a heap and shoved into a corner. Peeta picks up something in sky blue and drops it again, wrinkling his nose. These are wet, and they don't smell like spilled liquor, either. Well, that's a disturbing new element.

"Behind you, kid," Haymitch's voice drawls, too well-versed on 'Victor etiquette' to sneak up on one of the other Chosen Ones. Then he reaches around Peeta and gently shuts the wardrobe door. "Nothing in there."

"Haymitch, did you-" Peeta turns around and stops talking because Haymitch is naked, his hair dripping on his shoulders. He's looking at the piles of clothes on the floor.

"Piss on them? Yeah. Seemed like a good idea at the time." He shrugs and snags a shirt at random. "Which pile did you throw my trousers into? Probably be more efficient if I just give up on underwear, don't you think?"

"Haymitch," Peeta says on a sigh.

"Oh, sorry, does my line of work make you uncomfortable, Cupcake?" Haymitch sneers.

Peeta grabs a pair of pants from the floor and returns to the dresser to look for shorts or briefs or something. "Don't call me Cupcake," he says in a low, carefully controlled tone. He finds what he's looking for at the back of the bottom drawer and hands both items to Haymitch. "Get dressed, and try to think before you say anything else."

Haymitch snatches the clothes with a violent swipe of one hand. "Screw you, _kid_. Get out."

"Are you going to hit me, Haymitch?"

Haymitch finishes fastening his trousers and sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. "No. _Fuck_. Give me a minute, okay?"

"Okay. I'll be downstairs. It's going to be alright." Peeta leaves before Haymitch breaks down.

987654321

The walk into town had been a good idea. Haymitch seems to have come back to himself. He notices Peeta watching him as they move down the enclosed path and gives him a slightly sardonic smile that is the perfect mixture of friendly familiarity and mild exasperation.

They don't talk. Peeta had the idea of going to the Hob because he could hardly bring Katniss to Haymitch's house with things the way they were. At this time of day, there's a good chance they'll meet her there. Then the three of them will return together. That's the plan, anyway. Both of them understand the unspoken elements well enough.

Peeta wonders how Haymitch thinks they're going to discuss this without Katniss finding out- finding out about Snow's latest cruelties. He frowns to himself. It makes him too uncomfortable to think about it in anything but vague and ominous terms. If they get out of this, Haymitch is going to need someone who can accept what happened to him and help him cope. Not that he has any clue as to how he could help.

"Stop brooding, boy," Haymitch says gruffly. "Katniss is the only thing you have to worry about now, so leave it alone."

"You're right." Peeta smiles dutifully. "And I'm not brooding. I never brood."

Haymitch rolls his eyes. They fall back into the companionable silence that usually surrounds them and Katniss as well, whenever they're outside of Haymitch's house.

"Peeta, stop a minute." Haymitch says quietly, halting and catching Peeta's arm.

"What?" Peeta looks around at the walls of snow and the path stretching out behind and before them, his senses on high alert. Then he answers his own question. "Something's happening."

An unfamiliar sound can be heard ahead of them, a repeated whooshing _crack._ Haymitch takes a single step toward the sound, hackles rising. "We have to find Katniss and get back to the Village. Where would she be?"

"Probably at the Hob." Peeta is about to ask what the sound is when another sound sets both men running.

"_Stop!_" It's Katniss yelling the word, and she's in the middle of whatever's happening. Haymitch is still very fast when he wants to be, and Peeta loses sight of him as he reaches the end of the path and keeps running. A moment later Peeta comes bursting into the clearing and skids to a stop.

What looks like half the town is gathered around the square, and they would be blocking his view if Haymitch hadn't just plowed a path through them. Some of them turn to gawk at the new arrival, but most are still fixated on the spectacle in the town square. Someone is chained to the whipping post, hunched over and bloodied. Haymitch is standing between the post and a Peacekeeper, gesturing. And behind him stands Katniss.

Peeta doesn't waste any more time trying to make sense of the scene. Taking a deep breath, he races towards them at a dead sprint. He stops in front of Haymitch, facing the Peacekeeper and panting slightly. Haymitch immediately grabs Peeta and pushes the teenager behind him with Katniss. Then he goes back to talking to the Peacekeeper.

"Are you sure Snow wants three dead Victors here? Because that's what you're looking at."

His voice is steady and persuasive, but Peeta can sense that he's scared. At Peeta's side, Katniss is tense and watchful. Peeta rolls his shoulders to loosen them and then braces himself. Fighting won't do any of them any good, not with everything stacked against them. It won't save them. He knows that, but he can't keep Katniss from fighting and Katniss is worth dying for.

Thread sneers at the man who had the audacity to get in his way. He hadn't recognized the girl at first, but there's no mistaking Haymitch Abernathy. He'd been briefed on each of the resident Victors en route. According to the report, Haymitch is a drunkard, too addled by his addiction to be much more than an annoyance. The girl is supposed to be the trouble-maker in the group. He'd been told to keep a close eye on her. The boy is sensible and well-behaved, but has an unfortunate tendency to follow Katniss's lead. _Mine rat love_, Thread thinks contemptuously.

And he's barely been here half an hour but here they are, all three of them, making some kind of pathetic stand to save a random dissident from a flogging. Only pampered Capitolites could be made nervous by such creatures. It's clearly past time to show the higher-ups how easily such behavior can be discouraged. It's true that he can't flog Katniss Everdeen, not yet anyway, but he's pretty sure he knows what will work just as well.

"Perhaps the president wouldn't want _three_ dead Victors," Thread says slowly. "Alright, I'm feeling lenient today." He lets his menacing tone give the lie to his words. He stares into Haymitch's eyes long enough to savor the fear he sees there and then bellows his commands to his squad. "Release the prisoner, and put this man in his place. He can have the lashes for both of them, and for the girl, too."

The other Peacekeepers glance uneasily at each other. Haymitch is famous, wealthy, almost an honorary Capitolite. He has a _phone_. It's best to just ignore him as much as possible, lest he take it into his head to go crying to his friends in the Capitol. But now Thread is turning towards them, and Darius lies bloodied and unconscious on the ground.

Before Thread can say anything else two of them move reluctantly towards Haymitch and two others hasten towards the post.

"Take off your shirt," one of the Peacekeepers orders.

"Get away from us, Moen," Katniss growls in warning. "Peeta, get Gale."

"Shut up, Katniss," Haymitch hisses, pushing her behind him again. "Go get your cousin, and go _home_."

"No. We're leaving. Come on." Her voice is unsteady, and she _knows_ they're not all walking away from here. But the Capitol can't _always_ win.

"Your shirt, now, or it will be worse for you," the Peacekeeper demands of Haymitch, as though in scornful reply to Katniss's unspoken conviction.

Haymitch snaps his eyes to the man in front of him and takes off his shirt. His skin instantly prickles with the cold. "Fuck's sake, Peeta, take her back to the Village already."

"He's right. Come on, Katniss." Peeta says quietly. He needs to get her out of here before she really does get herself killed. He'll just have to get her home and hope her mother and Prim can keep her there until this is over.

"No, let them stay," Thread speaks up, his trained voice effortlessly cutting through their pointless quibbling. "This will be instructive for our young Victors."

Haymitch catches Peeta's eyes, and Peeta nods slightly. It's the only reply he can give here, so it will have to do. _I'm sorry. I'll keep Katniss from interfering. I'm sorry._

Then the two Peacekeepers seize Haymitch's arms and roughly shove him over to the post and down onto his knees. They fasten his wrists to the pole above his head, so that there's no way he can move to protect his back once to whip starts falling on him.

"Let him go!" Katniss shrieks, fighting to get free from Peeta. Peeta holds on grimly. If she gets loose now she'll attack one of the Peacekeepers.

"That's enough caterwauling from you," Thread declares. "He's already getting sixty lashes, twenty for each offense. Let's add five more for every word the girl says, and any word Peeta might choose to say."

"Sir," one of the Peacekeepers interjects tensely. It's Moen, the one who had taken Haymitch's shirt. "With respect, sir, sixty lashes would likely prove fatal."

"Well, that would be a pity. I have no desire to kill one of our Victors unless I have to. They're so _rare_ in 12. I will stop at forty if the other two can keep quiet and behave themselves for the duration."

Katniss abruptly stops struggling. She lets Peeta put his arms around her, but she continues to stare at Thread with smoldering hatred. Peeta squeezes her hand, and is immensely relieved when she returns the squeeze after a brief hesitation. He'll get Katniss through this latest horror, and then the two of them will get Haymitch through it. Damage control has become his mind's default setting.

"Let's get started," Thread announces, stepping back. He unfurls his whip and lets the first lash fly. It lands cleanly across the shoulder blades, a good place to start because it can be tricky to hit later when the subject starts cringing and squirming.

_Two._ This time it lands just above the hips.

_Three._ Begin laying down the crosshatch pattern. At this point it becomes a game, to see how neat you can make it in spite of the subject's struggling.

_Four._ Blood begins to flow, obscuring the forming pattern and making the game more complex.

_Five_. Most subjects are screaming by now, but this one hasn't found his voice yet. He will.

_Six_. He had seemed sober enough. He was at least coherent. But with a long time drunk like him you can't always tell. The drink may be dulling it a little for him.

_Seven_. The dissident he had originally been whipping had been screaming like a banshee by this point.

_Eight._ Ah, there we are.

_Nine_. Same spot as the last one, just to hear that lovely scream again.

_Ten_. Moving on, we do have a pattern to build.

_Eleven._ By the time we're done he'll scream at a feather touching his back.

_Twelve_. He lets himself wonder for a few seconds what the girl's screams would have sounded like.

_Thirteen._ Haymitch has gone limp, hanging by his arms.

_Fourteen._ He's still screaming, though.

_Fifteen._ Most of them don't really pass out until sometime around twenty.

_Sixteen._ It's more satisfying to whip men. The barely hidden terror and pathetic defiance in their faces is so much richer than what the women usually offer.

_Seventeen_. But a good work-out with the whip always gets his blood up, and either flavor will do.

_Eighteen_. He notices that Katniss is crying with her face hidden against Peeta's chest.

_Nineteen._ Maybe he should make her watch, but he has gotten into a good rhythm and he doesn't want to pause now.

_Twenty._ Anyway, maybe it's best not to disturb her. She might do something stupid, and he really doesn't want to have to whip Haymitch to death.

_Twenty-one_. Snow probably wouldn't care, now that 12 had two other Victors to take over.

_Twenty-two_. But the other two are hands-off for the time being, until this cockamamie wedding bullshit is over.

_Twenty-three._ Then he'll see how brave the girl is with her own flesh on the line.

_Twenty-four_. Until then, why, he'll just have to use her whipping boy.

_Twenty-five._ Peeta isn't crying. Peeta is staring at him in a way that almost seems insolent.

_Twenty-six. _No screams, this time. Haymitch has finally lost consciousness. Fairly impressive tolerance.

_Twenty-seven_. He hopes Peeta is sensible and well-behaved enough to keep quiet.

_Twenty-eight._ He lands another across the shoulder blades. Haymitch is still enough for that now.

_Twenty-nine._ Another close to the waist. Sometimes that brings them around.

_Thirty._ The subject is still unconscious.

_Thirty-one._ He aims high and the whip strikes across the forearms. Haymitch jerks.

_Thirty-two._ He brings the lash down on Haymitch's upper arms, and Haymitch howls.

_Thirty-three_. Well, he's awake now. Back to that fine pattern.

_Thirty-four._ He's not screaming any longer, but keening: a sound that's captivating in its pathos.

_Thirty-five_. Usually people who have reached the keening stage aren't even aware they're making a sound.

_Thirty-six_. They aren't properly aware of anything, except the pain.

_Thirty-seven._ Sometimes the pain is all they're aware of for days afterward.

_Thirty-eight._ Sometimes they keep keening for days afterward, almost non-stop, whenever they're awake.

_Thirty-nine._ He lays one more across the shoulders.

_Forty. _The last one hit just above the waist.

At last, it is over. Thread steps back with a satisfied smile and flicks the blood off his whip in one smooth motion. Large scarlet roses bloom on the snow near his feet. He coils the whip as he looks to one of his underlings and gives them the nod. The dolt just stands there frozen. Honestly, did old Cray _ever_ do his job around here? "Release him," Thread snaps.

The Peacekeeper scurries forward. It takes him three tries to fit the key into the locked cuffs, and each time he misses he throws a nervous glance at Thread. He unlocks the cuffs and Haymitch drops to the ground like a bag of flour and lies unmoving. He's alive, though. Thread can hear him breathing from where he stands. There'll be no more trouble from this one at least, even if he recovers.

"Clear the square! You're all under curfew! Anyone on the street in fifteen minutes will be shot on sight!"

Peeta is the first to reach Haymitch. He is lying half prone, half on his side. Peeta drops down in front of him and sits back on his heels. Up close, the damage is literally sickening. The only thing Peeta has seen that even compares is his own leg after the Career ran it through with his sword. That memory overlay the present for a queasy moment before he shakes it off. He needs to focus.

"Haymitch, can you hear me? Say something!" There is no reply. His eyes are closed and bloody foam issues from one corner of his mouth. He's quivering, from pain or cold or both. At least the cold is slowing the bleeding.

Someone touches Peeta's shoulder, and he looks up to see Katniss standing behind him looking as queasy as he had felt. "We need something to carry him on," she says.

"Like what? There isn't anything!" Peeta takes a moment to get his voice steady. He looks back down at Haymitch. The blood-covered figure seems to be quivering a little less violently. "Haymitch?" he asks, but there's still no sign the man hears him.

"He's freezing. We have to get him inside," Katniss says. They both look around. They are almost completely alone in the square. A solitary Peacekeeper watches from about ten yards away. All Katniss knows about him is his name- Orin. His expression is stony. When he catches her eyes he deliberately turns away.

"They're all cowards," Katniss says in a low voice.

"None of them could have stopped this."

"They _left_."

Peeta has no reply to that. He pushes it to the back of his mind, where her words catch and cling like nettles.

"_Wake up_," he says desperately. He lifts one of the limp hands out of the snow and digs the knuckle of his thumb into the cold palm.

"_Let go_." It comes out in a rasping sort of hiss that bypasses the vocal cords completely. The eyes stay tightly shut.

"We have to get you up, okay? We have to get you inside."

"Leave." This time the reply is actually spoken, and he pays for the effort. The hand Peeta holds twitches while his free hand digs into the snow. A tear runs down his stubbled cheek.

"How are we going to do this?" Peeta asks Katniss. "Each take an arm?"

"At least we know he won't be too heavy for us that way." Katniss gingerly touches his uppermost arm and then grips it tightly in both hands, grimacing at the tacky feel of drying blood. "He's barely shivering. We have to hurry. Let's sit him up and then lift."

She pulls and Haymitch screams horribly. It actually helps her a little, somehow. Grimly, she hauls him to a sitting position. "Help me, Peeta!"

He continues to scream as they muscle him up enough to get his arms over their shoulders. The two teenagers stagger-step across the square with their burden. He's much harder to move than the last time they did this. He's deadweight this time.

"Is he still alive?" Peeta asks breathlessly as they move through the snow.

Katniss is concentrating on her footing, because if they trip and fall she doubts they'll be able to get him up again. "He's _screaming_," she says shortly. "Keep up."

"He stopped," Peeta says, trying to move faster. "Katniss-" He breaks off, saving his breath. He can't keep up this pace on an artificial leg in the snow while managing this much weight. Saying so would be worse than useless.

Katniss still hears plenty of screaming, but there are too many voices. These are the people who scream in her ears every night when she falls asleep. The thought that they might be dragging a blood-covered corpse back through the snow towards Victor's Village doesn't slow her down at all. He'd still have to be taken in.

Peeta trips, and suddenly Haymitch's whole weight falls on her and then she falls, too. The three of them are half-buried in the snow, and Katniss is suddenly sure it's really only the two of them. Tears cloud her vision and she swipes the back of her hand across her eyes quickly.

"Sorry! Is he-" Peeta is on his knees, leaning over Haymitch's body.

"I don't know. Go get help, alright? I'll stay with him."

"You'd be faster."

Katniss nods, unable to speak anymore. She looks quickly at Haymitch, then turns and runs off toward the archway. Peeta looks after her bitterly. They were so close. The archway is only about forty yards away. But it might as well be forty miles, with the snow and his useless friggin' leg.

He brushes the snow off Haymitch as much as he can. He slides his fingers under the other man's jaw and feels for a pulse, half-expecting some sound, some weak unconscious protest. There is none, but Peeta finds a very slow pulse. He tries to pull Haymitch up out of the snow, but he won't stay up. Peeta lies down beside him and then moves on top of him, holding most of his weight off the other while trying to offer him as much warmth as he can.

"You have to survive, Haymitch. I can't protect her on my own."

Haymitch doesn't hear him. For the moment, he is beyond the reach of Peeta's words. He is driving very fast down an open highway. The fine, familiar taste of liquor is on his tongue. Beside him a petite woman in shiny clothes chatters endlessly on, and he simultaneously wants to kiss her and to stop the truck and demand that she get lost. All of this is alien and bizarre and he wishes he could stay forever. There's something he needs to get back to, but he can't remember what that might be, for the moment.


	8. Family

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: PuzzlesolverDramaqueen, thanks again! Yeah, I doubt he's been entirely sane since his own Games. He's already coming a bit undone. If the story goes in the direction I think it will, he'll likely end up beyond help or hope of recovery. But ultimately it goes where it wills, and if I don't follow I'll get left alone out here in the dark. So I follow, always.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 8**

Katniss comes slamming into the house, and she's already yelling for her mother. On the short run here she has unwillingly become convinced that Haymitch is still alive. If he is, Peeta shouldn't have to watch him die alone.

Elsabet Everdeen comes running into the room, Prim close behind her.

"Katniss, what happened? What's wrong?"

"You have to come, right now. Hurry up," Katniss demands, backing towards the door.

"What is it?" her mother pleads.

"You're all bloody!" Prim cries at the same time, rushing over to help her white-faced sister.

"It's not mine," Katniss reassures her. "Stay here, Prim. I need you to tend to Gale for me, okay? Mom, come _on_." She grabs her mother's hand to pull her out of the house. Prim isn't strong enough to help, so that leaves her mother. Katniss tells herself firmly that she can mostly support Haymitch as long as she has someone to steady him a bit.

Elsabet refuses to move, understanding coming into her sharp eyes. "Prim, go see to Gale," she says firmly. Prim gives them both a worried look before turning and heading back into the kitchen.

"It's Haymitch, isn't it? The men who brought Gale told me. Did they kill him?" Her voice is hard, as hard as her eyes.

"I don't know. Peeta's with him. Come on, why aren't you moving?"

"I'll come. I'll get one of the blankets to carry him in." She turns abruptly and heads for the stairs. "You wait where you are, Katniss. I won't be able to find him on my own if you run off."

Fuming over the delay, Katniss briefly considers finding someone else to help her. Peeta's father would have come with her right away. She should have gone to Peeta's house. "You _want_ him to die," she accuses the woman who is no longer in the room to hear her. "Hurry up!" She looks at the blood on her hands and her arms and her shirt. There's so much of it. The warm, well-lit house feels hostile and not-quite-real. Whose blood is all over her?

Elsabet comes back down the stairs quickly, the heavy, off-white blanket from her bed folded over her arm. She finds Katniss staring at the blood on her hands, frozen. She pauses on the bottom riser, clenching her fists in the soft fabric. She supposes Haymitch probably saved her older daughter, knows he at least helped her survive. But she can't help hating the man a little when she sees Katniss like this, scared and trapped in her mind and seeing who knows what.

"Katniss," she calls out, more sharply than she had intended.

Katniss startles and looks up at her uncomprehendingly.

"Come on, then. We have to get Haymitch."

That's enough to bring her back, this time at least, and she nods tensely. They leave the house together, and at Katniss's urging Elsabet breaks into a jog. It's that or be harried across the snow like a lost goat.

"I won't bring him back to the house if he's dead," she tells her daughter grimly as they run, now, across the snow.

"Fine, don't. If he's dead I'll drag him back by myself," Katniss replies with a scowl.

They can see Peeta and Haymitch now, and a few seconds later they reach them. Peeta is sitting beside Haymitch, his head bowed.

"It's too late. He died a couple of minutes ago," Peeta says tonelessly.

Katniss feels the ground sink out from under her as she falls to her knees. _He was cold, and he was in pain, and his last word was 'leave'._ "Haymitch," she says softly. "They always win."

Elsabet unfolds the blanket next to the body on the snow. "Help me roll him onto this, Peeta."

Peeta kneels beside her and mechanically rolls the limp body onto the blanket by himself.

Elsabet begins trying to resuscitate him as the two teens look on. 'A couple of minutes' isn't that long, and there's a decent chance that this will work. His mouth is bloody and metallic tasting. She's only ever tried this before with victims of mine accidents. It hadn't brought any of them back. In most cases that had probably been a mercy.

There's more physical toughness in this man than he merits, though, maybe because he isn't chronically malnourished and doesn't have lungs that are full of coal dust. He jerks under her hands and then begins to breathe on his own with gratifying swiftness. Elsabet sits back on her heels and spits once into the snow before wiping the residue of blood from her mouth.

"He's alive. Katniss, you get one end of the blanket and I'll get the other. Peeta, you make sure he keeps breathing. If he stops again, you bend back one of his fingers until you get a response, even if you have to break it." She doesn't waste time checking Peeta's response to this instruction. Either he will or he won't.

This time it is Elsabet who sets the swift pace across the commons; he is alive for the moment and so she will try to fix him. Her duty is clear now, and it doesn't matter who he is. Except that this one will wake up ugly and probably undo all her work before anyone can calm him.

Peeta hurries ahead to get the door, and Elsabet and Katniss carry him into the warm house. "Into the kitchen," Elsabet directs, turning down the hall.

There is a fire blazing in the fireplace, a kettle of water boiling over the flames. They have an electric stove now, but when she's under stress Prim always falls back on the way she was taught in the Seam. The twelve-year-old is perched on a chair at the end of the long kitchen table, outwardly composed as she keeps watch over Gale's drugged sleep.

Gale lies prone on the table near the fire, deeply asleep and breathing evenly. His back is covered shoulders to waist with the snow coat, scenting the air with mint. Prim has folded a towel under his cheek as a pillow. He doesn't stir when they come in, but Prim looks up. She stands quickly; ready to step in wherever she's needed.

"I put more water on the fire. It should be ready," she says. "Who is it? What's wrong with him?"

"We'll put him on the floor between the table and the fire. Together now, Katniss. Are you ready?" Elsabet instructs.

"Ready."

They lower the blanket more or less steadily to the floor. Haymitch moans a little but doesn't perceptibly move.

"Alright, we have to roll him onto his belly." Elsabet grips one of the man's shoulders and looks at her eldest daughter. "Get his hip, and we'll roll him on three."

Katniss hesitatingly lays a hand on the hip closest to her, and Elsabet shakes her head. "Go on with you. Prim, help me roll him. And mind, this is probably going to bring him around." Prim kneels beside Katniss, who looks at her gratefully before retreating to stand beside Peeta.

Prim sees who it is now and feels a little thrill of dread. Frankly, Haymitch scares her. Prior to moving to Victor's Village about six weeks ago, she had never seen anyone drunk. So the first time she'd seen Haymitch staggering around the yard of the house next to Peeta's, striking out at inanimate objects with apparent anger an repeatedly falling down, she'd thought he must have gone mad. Katniss had told her how to recognize a mad dog, and this had looked very much like what she'd described. She had locked the doors and ran to get her mother. Elsabet had taken one disgusted look out the window and gone to unlock the doors. "He isn't mad. He's just a fool."

None of Prim's dread shows on her face, or in the confident movement of her hands. She grips his hip on the same side that her mother has hold of his shoulder and counts, "One, two, _three_."

They pull him up and towards them, over onto his belly. Prim's second question is decidedly answered. It's what they did to Gale, but much worse. Strips of his skin, barely anchored to his body, tear off onto the blanket as it pulls away from his back. What skin remains is divided into bloody diamond shapes, cut out on all sides. There are large patches where only glistening red muscle can be seen.

The movement wakes him and he shivers convulsively, hands scrabbling against the bloody blanket. He gets his hands under him and pushes up, gasping repeatedly. _"Fuck,"_ he gets out in a strained voice and then gasps again, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Lie down, Haymitch," Elsabet says firmly.

Haymitch tries to sit up all the way, which doesn't go well. He crashes down onto his side and a scream is wrenched from him. Prim flinches, but not as much as Katniss. He curls up, panting harshly.

"I've got to go," Katniss says quickly to Peeta, already turning towards the door. "I just need some air." She hurries out before Peeta can reply.

"Katniss!" Peeta calls after her, not noticing how Haymitch becomes still and silent for a few seconds. Is she upset enough to leave the Village? What if she is? What if Thread finds her out alone after curfew? But Haymitch has been _dead_. His heart had actually stopped. Peeta looks uncertainly back at the door, his sense of urgency gnawing at him.

"Is he going to live?" he asks Elsabet.

"For the moment," is her only reply.

Peeta looks toward the door again and then back. But he can't wait any longer. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promises, hoping Haymitch can understand him. Then he hurries out into the biting cold.

Katniss is nowhere to be seen. _Think._ Where would she go?

"Katniss!" Peeta calls. His house, maybe? His parents would have taken her in and tried to console her with food. There's nowhere else for her to have gone, unless she did leave the Village. Feeling a bit panicky, Peeta takes off running for his house.

The house assigned to Peeta, along with his parents and the brother that is still a year away from being old enough to marry, is directly across the commons from the Everdeen house. Haymitch's house is right next door to Peeta's, as though they mean to put males on one side and females on the other just like at the Reapings. Even though there are only three of them, he can't dismiss it as a coincidence. On this particular occasion it does work in his favor. Before he reaches his house he notices that the door to Haymitch's has been left standing wide open.

Rushing headlong into the characteristically untidy hall, Peeta spins around in a circle and calls out again. "Katniss?"

"I'm in here, Peeta," a slightly muffled voice answers.

Almost giddy with relief, Peeta takes a deep breath and latches the front door before going into the den.

"Why is this house so much darker than either of ours?" Katniss asks rhetorically. She's curled up in the brown armchair Haymitch usually favors. Her voice has a catch to it and her eyes are red, but she affects a casual tone.

Peeta shrugs, smiling to try to put her at ease. "I thought you'd left."

"Where would I go? See if I could give the Peacekeepers some more entertainment?" she says bitterly.

"I was just worried."

"They didn't have to do that. All Peacekeepers are scum. I'll kill them if I get the chance." Her voice flips from bitter to faux casual again. "Is he dead?"

"He's still alive." Then, feeling that that statement might not have come across as very reassuring, he quickly adds, "Elsabet says he'll be fine."

Katniss nods. "Well, if anyone can fix him, mom can." She tries to laugh, but it's a poor effort. "He's probably too stubborn to- to not be okay." She bows her head and Peeta hears her sob softly.

He goes to her and leans over the chair to put his arms around her. "It's going to be alright, Katniss."

"No, it isn't!" she cries fervently. "Everything's going to _shit_, Peeta. What will it be next? What will they do to us tomorrow? And what if he dies?"

"I don't know," Peeta murmurs, stroking her back. "We'll think of a way out of this, all of it." He shifts uncomfortably, his artificial leg starting to object to the position. "Move over."

After some maneuvering they both settle in the chair with Katniss half on Peeta's lap.

"So what did he do for two weeks in the Capitol?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me." For the first time since those terrible minutes lying in the snow and waiting for help, it occurs to Peeta that if Haymitch dies the Capitol will come for him and Katniss. He feels like a cad for thinking that way, until he looks into Katniss's inquisitive eyes. Then it seems like the only way he could possibly think. What will they do?

Well, Haymitch simply can't die. He makes himself say it out in his mind, because he deserves to feel shitty about it: _He has to go on being victimized so that Katniss won't be._ Peeta has as little choice about it as Haymitch does, but that doesn't make it any less despicable.

"Seriously?" Katniss looks at him hard. "He wouldn't tell _you_ something? It must be bad."

"You know how he is. If he doesn't want to talk it's pretty much down to derisive snorts and surly grunts."

"Yeah, I know." Katniss rolls her eyes. "How's Gale?"

Peeta tries to ignore the irrational flutter of jealousy. "I didn't ask. He looked alright, didn't he? And Elsabet and Prim didn't seem worried for him."

"I should have stayed with him- with both of them. There was just so much blood. Haymitch smelled of blood."

"Like Snow," Peeta says with perfect understanding.

"All the way back with him, I kept hearing all this screaming. Even after he stopped, you know?" she says forlornly.

"Back in the square, when I first went up to him, for a minute I could see and hear the arena all around me and it was my own wrecked leg I was looking at. Then it was gone again."

"All of us are just so messed up. How can we ever fight them now? Maybe you and I should become drunks, too. Maybe taking the edge off is the best we can hope for."

"I don't like alcohol, and I haven't got the energy to look after _two_ drunks," he says rather sharply.

Katniss sighs and punches his arm lightly. _I didn't mean it._ He relaxes again.

"We should get back," he says. "Your mother will be worried. So will Prim."

Katniss perks up a little. "You're right. Come on, then."

They leave Haymitch's dimly lit house. Outside, darkness has almost completely descended. As they step into Katniss's house, Prim sticks her head out of the kitchen.

"Good, you're back. Mom says for you to stay out of the kitchen for now, Katniss."

"Why?" asks Katniss, taking a couple of steps forward.

"We're still cleaning his back. There's a lot of blood," Prim says. Elsabet calls out, her words indistinct from where Katniss and Peeta stand. Prim ducks back into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

Katniss looks indecisive. She should go check on Gale. She wants to be there when he wakes up. But the memory of Haymitch's shredded skin is making her feel too closed in, set upon from all sides. She remembers how pieces of it clung to the bloody blanket, creating ghastly strings until they pulled free. It was like watching someone who was already dead decay and crumble apart. She doesn't want to have to look at what they did to him, not again.

"Katniss? Are you okay?" Peeta asks.

"I'm such a coward," she says in a defeated tone.

"No, you're not. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known." Peeta puts his hands on her shoulders and she looks up into his eyes and reads his sincerity there. She lets him wrap his arms around her, and for a second she pretends to believe that he really can fix all the problems with their lives.

"It's not a bad thing to dislike seeing people get hurt," he whispers into her hair.

Katniss nods against his chest. It's not that simple, of course. And even if it is, she's seen too much too still be so affected by suffering.

"Neither of us could have stopped what happened. Haymitch knew that."

"We should have been able to do something, the three of us. They're not all-powerful. I wanted Haymitch to refuse. He said it himself, they wouldn't have dared kill all three of us."

Peeta steps back, shaking his head. "Katniss, no. We can't think that way. They wouldn't have let us defy them in front of the whole district and walk away unscathed. I think they might really have killed Haymitch. And we have families to protect."

"We stood by and let this happen!" Katniss declares furiously. "What if he dies? How will we live with ourselves? Someone's got to show them they can't do this to people, and if not us then who?"

"Please, just calm down. You're right, we have to do something. But we can't do anything tonight. Let's wait until Haymitch recovers. He's our strategist. He'll think of something." Peeta looks into her eyes, pleading. "Promise me you won't go off and attack the Peacekeepers on your own."

Deflated, Katniss turns away. It sounds so stupid when Peeta says it out like that. Attack the Peacekeepers? They'd kill Prim and her mother and Gale, and who knows who else. There are too many of them, and they have all the power. Nothing she can do will make any difference.

"Katniss?" Peeta sounds like he's seriously considering knocking her out and locking her in her bedroom. She knows enough to appreciate that Haymitch would be having very similar ideas if she had said this to him. She turns back around.

"I promise. I'm not going to throw away my life that cheaply."

It's a bit too much in the tone of Haymitch's statement that he wouldn't kill himself, and Peeta is a long way from being fully reassured. But at least she seems unlikely to sneak out of the house tonight and start shooting arrows at the Peacekeepers.

"Are you staying?" Katniss asks.

"Yes, at least until morning." He wants to be there when Haymitch wakes up.

"Let me know if anything happens, okay?"

He nods. "You'll know as soon as I do."

Katniss goes upstairs, starting up in a quick and agile rain of steps and slowing as she begins to habitually keep a wary eye on her surroundings again. Peeta watches her out of sight.

Where would the phone be? He begins a quick search for it, supposing he will find it in the study. That's where the phone is in his house. He's never seen a phone in Haymitch's house so it must be in one of the unused bedrooms over there,

He finds it on the large desk in the study, same as his own. Peeta dials his house and hopes his mother won't answer.

The phone rings twice before an anxious voice says, "Hello?" It's Rye, his older brother.

"It's me, Peeta. I'm at Katniss's house. Could you tell mom and dad I'll be spending the night over here?"

"Yeah, alright. Did something happen? Dad saw a bunch of people go over there earlier, and there's been an announcement on the TV about a curfew. Is Katniss okay?" Like almost everyone in their part of District Twelve, Rye expects Katniss to be at the center of any disturbances.

"She's fine. So am I. A couple of guys got whipped. I'm just helping out for the night."

Here in Victors Village they're fairly isolated. Outside the gates, in the Seam and the Town, everyone will know what happened by now. And if they weren't utterly cowed before, that's likely changed. They will have seen a Peacekeeper threaten to shoot one of their Victors and whip another one almost to death just for getting in the way, in addition to what they'd done to Gale. Peeta hopes they remember that the man being whipped for poaching was trying to feed his hungry family; Katniss's single-handed attempt to fend the vicious bullies off; the three Victors standing together in their brief, doomed moment of defiance. But he knows that all most people will remember about today is that the Peacekeepers can do anything they want.

He says goodbye and hangs up before Rye can ask any more questions. It's time to go see to Haymitch.


	9. Boiled Water and Herbs

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 9**

Peeta lets himself into the kitchen. Haymitch is lying prone again, once more on the gory blanket between the table and the fire. They've undressed him and pulled a second, lighter blanket up to just below his hips, stopping a few inches short of the lowest lash mark. He's propped up on his elbows, head deeply bowed so that his sweaty hair hides his face. Prim is sitting in front of him, holding on to his hands. Elsabet kneels between him and the table, running a wet cloth over his back. Haymitch shivers constantly and flinches away with a muffled cry every time the cloth touches him. As Peeta watches, Haymitch pulls one of his hands towards him. Prim keeps hold of it and pulls it back.

"No. Hold still, Haymitch. We're trying to help." Prim says in a slow, steady voice.

Haymitch doesn't reply in words, but he lets her hold his hands pinned to the floor in front of him. Peeta takes this as a good sign. If he was in a state like he'd been at his house this morning, or worse, there's no way Prim could have kept his hands there. Elsabet has tasked the girl with keeping Haymitch from trying to sit up again.

"Tell me what I can do to help," Peeta says.

"Get the bottle of liquor from the pantry. It's on the top shelf, in the back," Elsabet orders.

Peeta retrieves the bottle, which is slightly less than half full. Elsabet accepts it and pours some onto a clean cloth.

"This is going to hurt like hell. If we're lucky, he'll pass out." She looks down at her patient with tight lips and narrowed eyes, as though doubting that either of them will ever be such a thing as 'lucky'. She shakes her head and motions sharply to her younger daughter. "Move away from him, Prim." Even in this state, he can probably still strike out pretty hard.

"I'll hold him," Peeta says. "Just give me a minute." He takes Prim's place and wraps his large hands around Haymitch's wrists. "Haymitch, are you still with us?" He reaches for Haymitch's chin, intending to get eye contact and try to talk him through the application of the alcohol. Haymitch snaps his head away and then bites Peeta's fingers, grinding his teeth into them. Yelping in surprise and pain, Peeta jerks his hand free. Large drop of blood fly off as he shakes it. Cursing, he catches Haymitch's wrists again just in time to prevent the man from pushing himself up. The bitten fingers don't seem to want to move properly and his hand is slick with blood. He puts his good leg across Haymitch's forearms, pressing his knee into one and resting most of his weight on the other.

"I've got him. Go ahead." Peeta braces himself.

Haymitch screams and jerks as the alcohol touches him. Elsabet lays the saturated cloths over his back, lifting them to apply more alcohol and laying them down again.

Haymitch lays his head down on the blanket, tucking his chin towards his shoulder. After the initial scream he is mostly silent. Every minute or so he draws in a deep breath and lets it out with a pained hiss. He's slowing his breathing as much as possible- holding his breath, really- in an effort to remain absolutely still.

"Alright, that should kill just about anything on him. I'll apply the snow coat now, while he's quiet. You'd best have Prim disinfect that bite."

Haymitch looks even worse washed clean of all the blood that had been partially hidden his injuries. He lies flat now, his head turned away from the fire and his eyes closed. His mouth is open as he breathes deeply and evenly. Blood stains his lips and chin. Peeta wants to wipe the blood away but he's scared he'll get the same reaction as last time. Elsabet clearly has the same thought, because she's ignoring the mess. She fishes a large cloth out of a pot of recently boiled water and wrings it out before spreading it over Haymitch's back from his waist to his shoulders. It looks like it was once part of a sheet. She looks up from putting on a layer of faintly green snow to say, "Don't touch anywhere near his face, Prim. He bites."

"I know, mom." Prim examines Peeta's hand, turning it over and straightening the fingers as Peeta grits his teeth. "Looks like you're for the alcohol, too," she says sympathetically. She expertly disinfects the bite and bandages his hand. "That will need to be checked tomorrow morning."

"Thanks," Peeta tells her. "And thanks for helping him."

Prim looks away, slightly uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Of course. We're healers."

Peeta nods and goes to sit beside Haymitch.

"Haymitch?" There's no response; just the slow, deep breaths. "It's me, Peeta. Can you hear me?"

Haymitch moves his head in a minute nod, not lifting it off the blanket.

"Open your eyes, okay? Can you do that?"

"Leave him alone," Elsabet says, coming back in after emptying two of the pots that had held bloody water. "If he can sleep, all the better."

"I need to know he's going to be okay."

"He might not be. Let him sleep now."

"Just give me a minute! Please."

Elsabet doesn't bother to say anything else. It'll be faster to just let Peeta satisfy himself.

Peeta looks down at Haymitch and catches himself about to nudge the man. He pulls his hand back short of touching the mass of torn flesh that used to be Haymitch's shoulder.

"Haymitch, open your eyes, okay? Just for a minute," he coaxes.

Haymitch slits his eyes open. His vision is blurred, but he can make out Peeta's form beside him. His heart pounds a steady drumbeat in his ears and his sight brightens and darkens in time with it. He tries to say something to calm Peeta, because the boy should be with Katniss instead of hovering over him like this. Everything is spiraling down, and doesn't Peeta understand _yet_ that at least one of them should be with the girl? He can't speak, so he forces his eyes the rest of the way open against the pounding and the light. He twitches one corner of his mouth up and winks.

Peeta smiles back, surprised and then just relieved. It doesn't worry him when the gray eyes slip closed again and stay closed. "I'll come back later," he promises, and then goes off to tell Katniss he's alright.

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The early morning sun slants through the window and falls across Peeta's eyes. Still mostly asleep, he turns over on the couch. But it's no use, really. He's always been a light sleeper, and the day has clearly started. With a groan, he opens his eyes. He had been having a nightmare, but he can't remember what it was this time. All he remembers is a sense of dread, and that could be in relation to almost anything that's happened to him in the last three months or so.

The teenager rolls over onto his back and indulges in a few minutes of contemplation. It's surreal how fast everything has changed. Just a few months ago he'd been a normal guy, living in Town and helping out at his family's bakery before and after school each day. Katniss had been the beautiful and forever unattainable dream girl he stole looks at across the classroom. He hadn't known Haymitch at all, except as a drunkard who made a spectacle of himself once a year at the Reaping.

Three months ago a challenge had been creating a particularly beautiful scene on a birthday cake for the mayor's daughter. Lying here in the cold early morning sunlight, that seems rather profound. He says it aloud, although he keeps his voice low.

"Three months ago my biggest challenge was Madge Undersee's birthday cake."

He laughs at himself and sits up. That's enough self-indulgence. He has real challenges now. And, grim as things are in many ways, he knows he wouldn't go back. He had been relatively safe once, but he had also been bored and trapped and condemned to a life that was largely scripted out for him and just the same as almost everybody else's. Now he at least has a chance to make it count for something. And even if it proves impossible to change the world, he has people who depend on him now.

He heads into the kitchen to check on Haymitch, making a mental note to bring him some liquor afterwards. The last thing he needs right now is withdrawal symptoms.

He finds Katniss asleep with her head resting on the kitchen table next to Gale. Gale is awake, watching her sleep with a look of adoration. Peeta quashes an unkind impulse to wake her up at once. Instead he gives Gale a little wave. Gale looks much better this morning. His eyes are bright and alert, and he lifts one hand at Peeta in reply. And then of course there's that smile as his eyes turn back to Katniss.

Peeta walks around the table as quietly as he can and sits down next to Haymitch. He's sleeping and he looks peaceful. A fresh layer of snow coat has been put on him recently, and the light blanket has been pulled up above his waist so that the top of it overlaps the dressing. His mouth is still covered in dried blood, and Peeta gets up and hunts around for a cloth. He wets the corner of a hand towel and cautiously dabs at the blood. There's no response, so Peeta cleans the blood off thoroughly, having to scrub a little where it's dried into the stubble on his chin.

"There, that's better," he whispers, mindful of waking Katniss. He sets the cloth aside and takes one of Haymitch's hands. The hand is limp and very warm in his. Peeta notices that Haymitch's face is flushed, and he frowns. Maybe Haymitch shouldn't be so close to the fire. He squeezes the limp hand in reassurance and lays his other hand along Haymitch's forehead. The man is burning up.

"Shit," Peeta curses under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Katniss asks, startling him. She's come to stand a few feet away, looking down at them.

"Help me move him. He's too hot. We need to put him further from the fire," Peeta says urgently.

"Alright." Katniss kneels and gathers up one end of the blanket in her hands. Peeta takes the other and they lift the blanket with Haymitch in it in an unsteady, uncoordinated heave.

"Other side of the table," Peeta says, and they make their way awkwardly around the corner.

Gale has propped himself up on his elbows and is watching the proceedings. "You two are going to drop him," he says with some alarm.

They get around the table and set Haymitch down with a dull thump that makes Gale wince in sympathy. "Wow, Catnip, you're really not cut out for this patient care stuff," he teases.

"Yeah, well, the _good_ healers left him practically on top of the fire all night," she replies in kind.

"He's really hot," Peeta says worriedly. He's already sitting beside Haymitch on the floor again. Haymitch hasn't responded at all to the none-too-gentle move. Peeta slides his fingers along Haymitch's neck, hunting a pulse. "Katniss, come feel this. It's not supposed to be that fast, is it?"

Katniss shakes her head, not making any move to join Peeta. "I'm going to get mom." She hurries out of the room.

"What's up?" Gale asks, watching Peeta.

"I think he's feverish," Peeta answers. Fever means infection, but he doesn't say this. He also doesn't say that infection means death. They both know it. Instead, Peeta takes Haymitch's hand again and turns it so that he can dig the knuckle of his thumb into the center of Haymitch's palm. "Come on, Haymitch, wake up." There's nothing at all.

"You lie back down, Gale," a stern voice says. Elsabet has arrived in time to see Gale painfully pushing himself up from the table. She comes and drops down next to Peeta. Her capable hands feel forehead and cheeks and check the pulse in a series of practiced movements. Elsabet claps her hands in front of Haymitch's closed eyes, looking for a blink. She uses her thumb to pull up one of his eyelids and sighs when she meets with the normal resistance and the eye blinks rapidly before falling closed again. "Well, there's that at least," she mutters.

She pulls up the corner of the cloth covering Haymitch's back. The scattered bits of skin have turned a dark, bruised color. As Peeta watches, she leans forward and sniffs at the wounds. Elsabet removes the covering completely, depositing it on the blanket next to Haymitch's feet. Everywhere, raw bloody red alternates with purplish black. She sniffs again, even though she knows it will be the same lower down. She looks over at Peeta and shakes her head.

"He's dying."

Her voice is matter-of-fact, and only someone who knew her very well indeed could have discerned the unhappiness in her light blue eyes. Haymitch had largely been a weak man. But he had never been truly bad, even after everything that had happened. A whole lifetime ago, she and Peeta's father had struggled to bring him back from near-fatal alcohol poisoning. That had been only a few days after his family and the girl he'd been seeing had died suddenly of what the Peacekeepers said was the flu- the bodies immediately taken away 'for the safety of the citizens'. Shortly after that he'd secluded himself in the Village. Once a year she'd seen him up on stage in front of the tense crowd and had thus known that he was still alive. And now he's dying on her kitchen floor while Peeta looks at her blankly.

"He _can't_ be dying," Peeta says. Reality is already starting to break through his veneer of denial.

"He is. His back is infected. The skin is rotting. I'm sorry, Peeta. We did all we could, but he was just too badly hurt. He's not in any pain." If he is, he's beyond the ability to give any sign of it. And if he does start making noise she'll give him an injection of morphling.

"How long?" Peeta picks up one of Haymitch's hands, and Elsabet watches him trying not to cry.

"A few hours, maybe a little longer. He'll be gone before sundown."

"Okay." Peeta gazes down at the man, squeezing his hand. He chokes back a sob and takes a couple of deep breaths. When he's sure his voice will be steady he says, "Can we move him? He shouldn't be-" Peeta breaks off and bows his head.

"We'll move him to my room." Katniss speaks for the first time since Elsabet arrived. She has been hanging back, processing the scene in makeshift privacy. She's furious at this whole stupid, pointless situation: the sadistic, bullying Peacekeepers; the people she had known all her life who had run like rabbits; herself, Peeta, even Haymitch. She comes forward quickly and eases the light blanket up to Haymitch's neck. "I'll get this end of the blanket and you get the other. We'll go slowly."

"It won't do any good," Elsabet says. "He doesn't know where he is, anyway."

"He's not going to die lying on the kitchen floor like a dog," Katniss says fiercely. "Ready, Peeta?"

Katniss and Peeta lift the blanket with Haymitch in it one more time and Katniss slowly leads them upstairs and into her room. They lower their unmoving burden onto the bed. Peeta brushes Haymitch's golden hair out of his face. He sits down on the floor so that he's at eye level with Haymitch and takes his hand again. Katniss sits down beside him, and together they grieve.

"Typical that his last words to me would be 'shut up'", Katniss scoffs.

"I guess the last thing he said to me was 'leave'", Peeta replies after a moment's consideration. "Last night… he knew me, mostly, but I don't think he could talk."

Katniss sighs and scrubs a hand across her eyes in an impatient gesture. "I'm not going to sit here reminiscing about him and crying like- like some defeated _victim_. We're _not_ defeated yet." She glares at Peeta, sees no fight there. Her wrath-filled gaze turns to Haymitch, but that's no good. He certainly won't give her the fight she needs. _Fucking useless, both of them_, she declares silently.

"Damn you, Haymitch," she hisses, and jumps to her feet. "I'm calling the Capitol."

"What? Why?" Peeta asks, standing and snagging her arm before she makes it out of the room.

"What else am I supposed to do? Look at us, Peeta! He'd hate this. I said he shouldn't die lying on the floor like a dog, but mom was closer to the mark this time. If nothing can be done he'd want to crawl off somewhere by himself and die alone. If something can be done, I'm going to do it." She looks back over at Haymitch. "Either way, I'm leaving you alone, you surly old drunk. Maybe someday you can return the favor."

With those parting words she disappears through the door. Peeta stares after her for a moment. Then he returns to his place and takes Haymitch's hand again.


	10. New Deal

Disclaimer is attached to first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 10  
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She calls Cinna because his is the only number she knows by heart. She'd also been given Effie's number, but that had seemed like entirely useless information. Was she expected to call her escort and discuss posture or table manners some fine evening?

Katniss dials the number with sharp jabs of her finger and clutches the phone too tightly as she listens to the ringing.

"Hello there, you've got Cinna," says the smooth, slightly alluring voice, and Katniss sinks down into the chair behind the desk.

"Cinna? It's me. Katniss."

There's a pause, and when Cinna speaks again it's in the steady, reassuring tone that Katniss knows so well. You can breathe in strength from listening to some people. Katniss takes a deep breath.

"What's wrong, Katniss? Tell me how I can help."

"Haymitch is very sick. The Peacekeepers went at him yesterday. My mom says he's dying. Can someone come get him?" she says in a rush.

"Wait. The Peacekeepers 'went at him'? How do you mean?"

"They whipped him. What else? We can't save him here. All we have is snow and herbs. His skin is rotting."

"I see. Hold on, Katniss. I'll work something out. Are you and Peeta alright?"

"Yeah, we're okay. They didn't dare hurt _us_."

"Good. I'll call you back. Keep your heads down and stay where you are. Tell Peeta that, too. Goodbye for now." His voice subtly changes again as he delivers his habitual sign off. The phone clicks and Katniss hangs up and sits back to wait.

She keeps expecting Peeta to come after her, but maybe he decided to stay with Haymitch. Well, Haymitch always liked Peeta best. He might not be so bothered by Peeta's presence, although Katniss feels sure he'd never willingly allow anyone to hold his hand.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when the phone rings.

"Hello? Cinna?"

"They're sending a hovercraft to bring him to Victors Hospital. It will be there in about four hours. Just leave Haymitch where he is until then and try to keep him alive."

"Okay." Katniss feels her hope rising again. "Can they save him?"

"If he's still breathing when they get there, almost certainly. They're used to dealing with horrific injuries, as well as dehydration and exposure."

Katniss tries hard not to envision the conditions some of the past Victors had been in when the trumpets sounded and the hovercraft landed to collect them. Then she switches all her mental energy to willing away the image of Peeta in the last few hours before their Games had ended.

"Katniss, this is important. You and Peeta stay in 12. Don't go with Haymitch. If they try to tell you to get on the hovercraft, you both have to refuse. They can't have the authorization to make you come yet, there hasn't been time enough. Listen, everything Haymitch has gone through has been to protect you two. You have to stay in 12."

"We'll stay here," Katniss promises. She hangs up the phone and thinks about whoever comes for Haymitch not having the authority to take her and Peeta _yet._ What did Haymitch do to keep them away from the Capitol? That sounded like the deal was off because he was hurt.

She pushes open the door to her room. Peeta looks up, and the misery in his eyes lifts slightly at the sight of her.

"The Capitol is sending a hovercraft for him. We have to keep him alive for the next four hours."

Peeta's eyes widen in surprise. He looks at Haymitch. Rationally he knows he imagined the flinch at the word 'Capitol'. Haymitch probably can't even hear them, much less understand. He squeezes Haymitch's hand. _Sorry. There's no other option. You're going to be okay._

"Can they save him?"

"Cinna thinks they can."

"Then we'll make sure he holds on until they get here," Peeta says in his old firm, obey-me voice.

Katniss rolls her eyes a little. Just like that, huh, Peeta? Never mind that he doesn't hear you, or that he's unconscious. Or was the obey-me voice meant for _her_ this time? She looks up sharply, ready to nip that in the bud, but Peeta isn't looking at her. Alright, then.

Imperious voice or not, Haymitch is breathing steadily and she just can't believe that someone that stubborn will let himself die mere hours before help arrives.

"Cinna said we can't go with him. We have to stay here."

"I think you should stay here. You have to protect-"

"No, Peeta," she interrupts. "Both of us. Either we both stay, or we both go."

Peeta looks away from her. "Katniss…"

"Cinna all but said that if we went with Haymitch, Snow would start selling us. We _can't_ go."

Peeta swallows, nods. "Okay. You're right. I couldn't protect him anyway."

"Protect him from what?"

"You know what Victors Hospital is like," Peeta says tightly. "They'll strap him down so he can't move. Whatever it is he dreams about, I doubt waking up unable to move is going to help matters."

Katniss shakes her head. "Cinna said they don't have the authority to take us _yet_. What did he do while he was in the Capitol?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't talk about it," Peeta tells her again.

"I'll fight them," Katniss hisses. "Bastards. They all deserve to die."

"It won't come to that, Katniss. I promise. I'll never let them do that to you."

Katniss gives him a grateful smile and then impulsively embraces him.

For four hours they keep their vigil next to the bed. They watch Haymitch so they don't have to look at each other. With the blanket pulled up over his shoulders he could be just sleeping. In all that time, the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale only varies once: he makes a series of chuffing sounds, like weak coughing. Peeta takes his hand again and tells him to just relax and breathe. Haymitch settles back down after a moment, pulled through by Peeta's will or his own stubbornness.

They talk about how Gale's doing: well, much improved from last night. Katniss doesn't know how many lashes he got. Thread had already started when she got there.

They drift into silence. Every other topic that comes to mind makes Peeta feel uneasy.

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This time he feels a sort of mesmerized dread. He struggles to wake up, to open his eyes, but it's like he can't remember how. His back and his arms throb hotly. It's not pain, or not really, more an uncomfortable sensation of warmth. Something is moving over him, something separate and alive, and it is the source of his nameless dread.

He begins to shudder, but he still can't wake up. He's lying on a bed and all around him the squirrels come. They're swarming up the bedposts, and then they begin to drop from the ceiling. He can feel their sharp teeth as they begin to tear into his back.

Gray eyes snap open and he gasps. "S'okay, just a dream, just a dream." He recites the mantra rapidly and unthinkingly, white noise to calm him down so that he won't scream. "Just a dream, s'okay, just a dream…"

Then he feels the movement again, and the shiny gold face of the squirrel is peering at him upside down from barely three inches away, because it's _sitting on his head_.

He screams and screams, shaking his head frantically, trying to bat the loathsome thing away with arms that still won't move.

"Just a dream, my boy," someone says from quite nearby. The voice isn't loud, but it has an arresting quality. It is overtly friendly, even paternal, and slightly menacing- the voice of a third rate god.

It breaks through, and the squirrel vanishes at once. Seconds later the hand is back on his head, stroking through his hair. He lies very, very still. This close, the smell of blood and roses is nauseating.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it, Haymitch?" the bastard says meditatively.

Hell is repetition.

"You killed them," he says lowly.

"Killed whom?" the monster asks, pleasant and curious, just making a bit of conversation. And all the while the hand, the horrible reeking hand, is on him, moving in his hair like a dying fish. The ghosts gather behind his closed eyelids, crowd around him and beg him to save them.

Hell is repetition.

"_You_ killed your family, with your little stunt in the arena. _You_ killed them, Haymitch. Say it."

"I killed them," he admits dully. He lies there unmoving, a rotting husk.

Snow looks down at him and tuts. The boy is laid out prone, naked; strapped down at the wrists, lower thighs, and ankles. His back is healing well, but it's still very torn up and painful-looking. Now if only Haymitch were thirty years younger, twenty-five in a pinch. They outgrow their beauty so quickly. Such a waste.

He lets the boy drown in his guilt and misery for a few more minutes anyway; stroking his head and getting a little rush from the power such a simple gesture has over him. At length he stops.

"My boy, are you too addled to understand me?"

"I understand you," Haymitch replies. He tries to gather himself. For the first time he realizes that he is naked and strapped down. He shudders again. _Please, don't let him touch me anymore._

"Good. Very good. You're in the Capitol, at Victors Hospital. You won't remember the trip here, I suppose?" Snow inquires idly.

Haymitch watches him through narrowed eyes. He is painfully aware of the dreadful vulnerability of his current position, but there's never any real security in Snow's presence anyway. This just makes it way too obvious. Snow's Advisor in Charge of Psychological Warfare (Haymitch is certain such a personage must exist) has gotten a little trigger happy this time. In spite of that he has to focus, because this is where Snow reveals the next stage of the Games.

Receiving no answer, Snow continues his monologue. "Your friends with their boiled water and their herbs couldn't keep an infection from developing in some of the wounds on your back. It became quite serious. I was inclined to let you die, but you've been too profitable recently to discard. So, here you are. You've been unconscious for the last three days."

As the old devil talks it seems to Haymitch that he remembers some of it, in flashes and in moments. He recalls distant, ever-present pain and a room filled with birds.

"But now that you're back among the living, how would you like some visitors, my boy?"

Here the monologue wends to a stop. It's clear that he is required to say something in response to the faux question. Haymitch searches his mind, trying to see the next moves. Who would Snow send to him here in Victors Hospital?

Who would Snow leave him to when he's naked, strapped down, and utterly defenseless?

Well, that was easy. And why not? He feels a novel sense of detachment at the idea. Being strapped down while some damn Capitolite assaults him may actually be less unbearable than having no choice but to hold still for it. At worst, what's about to happen is nothing new.

"Fine," he says with resignation.

"Excellent! That's the spirit, my boy!"

Haymitch wonders if Snow is actively enjoying using that demeaning moniker or if it's just the address that comes to mind for a male from the outer districts. Wenceslas had called him 'boy', too. Not quite the same, but he decides that's probably just how Capitolites think.

"Of course, you won't be up to entertaining your usual companions for another couple of weeks. Until then, I can arrange for your two children to visit you often. That is, whenever they're not otherwise occupied."

Haymitch recoils as much as he can and the edges of the straps dig into his wrists and his legs. "Katniss and Peeta? Where are they? Please-" He catches his lower lip between his teeth and unknowingly begins to gnaw on it. His eyes are stinging.

"Yes, the Star-Crossed Lovers themselves. Unfortunately for them, they seem to have fallen into the unenviable position of becoming your surrogate family. They'll be arriving tonight on the train. I'll send them in to say hello before they go on to their respective appointments."

"Why? I did everything you wanted!" He forces himself not to beg, because there isn't a hope in hell that it would move this monster. 'People begging for mercy' is undoubtedly a big part of the background music of this man's life.

"Yes, you did, didn't you? And you were very good at it. Interest in you was still high. You might have been entertainment enough for a year, or even two years. But my Capitolites have short attention spans, and your foolish stunt has taken you out of commission for the next two weeks. So your children will have to serve in your place." Snow sits back in the velvet cushioned chair and smiles contentedly. He rather hopes Haymitch will cry now. He might enjoy watching that for a minute or two.

Haymitch feels a cry of despair building up in his throat, heavy and hard to breathe around. Once he voices it he won't be able to stop. And he'll lose. Tears, sobs, screams- these will all make about as much of an impression on Snow as begging would have. It's check, and his only chance is to grab the monster's attention. His sharp mind once saved his life at the expense of killing everything he had to live for. He's still here, though, so he bends his mind toward Snow. _Think._

He turns his face into the pillow and lets loose one strangled canine whine, a howl cut off almost at once. Then he looks at Snow again, dry-eyed, and smirks.

"Katniss is pregnant."

Snow's eyes widen for just a second. He rocks back, one hand going to his white beard. Neither man says a word for a long time.

Eons later, Snow says, "Is she indeed?"

Haymitch scoffs. "Teenagers, you know. They've all the self-control of jack rabbits. I guess it doesn't say much for my parenting skills." He bares his teeth in a mocking smile. "I was probably drunk when it happened."

"And is Peeta the sire?"

"So they tell me," Haymitch replies.

"I hope so, for her sake. If not, both she and the interloper will be very sorry." Snow looks at Haymitch with the intensity of a snake hypnotizing its prey. "Speaking of those prone to foolish behavior, _you_ didn't father it on her, did you?"

"_What?_" Haymitch decides the best reply to this is the incredulous derision that the suggestion initially makes him feel. He rolls his eyes. "She's nowhere near that hard up, believe me."

"Good. We can find out the paternity very easily, you know. If the whelp proved to be yours, I'd have you castrated."

"It's _not_ mine."

"Well, this is an interesting development," Snow says.

Haymitch just bets it is. He can see the anticipation in the old man's eyes. The fact is that it's very rare for Victors to produce children. This is downplayed in the Capitol, while the few Victor children that do exist are featured heavily each year in the Games fanfare. The concept seems to be similar to that of livestock keepers: if they're breeding they're content, and that's good publicity for the system.

Snow gets up and begins to pace around the small room. Since the bed is situated in the center of what space there is, he ends up circling it. Haymitch feels his heart speeding up again. He stays very still. The kids are all that matter, now.

"There'll need to be a wedding very soon, before our girl begins to show. I'll have film crews in every week to document the happy couple. They'll need their own house." Snow snaps his fingers. "Their handlers will have to be instructed to send them back to 12. That's the first thing." He laughs. "Oh yes, we mustn't forget that."

Haymitch relaxes, closing his gray eyes for a minute. This path is dangerous, too. He's almost sure Katniss is still a virgin. And if she isn't, it won't be due to Peeta. The kids will hate this, and Katniss might hate him. But never mind that now. They don't know. Unbidden images and sensations flood his mind as his body begins to shudder. They don't have the slightest fucking idea. And as long as he's still drawing breath they never will.

His thoughts come to a screeching halt and his eyes fly open as something touches the backs of his legs and his ass. His mind identifies the weight as squirrels. Fully awake this time, he shakes his head as though to dislodge his traitorous, fractured brain. _Not squirrels. Not. _He pushes himself up as much as he can and cranes his neck to look over his shoulder.

It's an off-white blanket, now covering him from the waist down.

"You were shivering," Snow remarks with a smile that says he knows exactly how unsettling the unexpected touch of the blanket was.

It's the first look Haymitch has gotten at his back since Thread flayed most of the flesh off of it. He can't see much, just the bit right above his waist. That small area is entirely bright red and deep, glistening pink. Is there any skin left at all? He can't see any. The feeling of uncomfortable heat gets stronger just from looking at it, but it still doesn't approach the agony he should be feeling. They must have him on heavy pain-killers.

How long had Elsabet managed to keep him alive like this in her fire-warm kitchen? And all the while his screams must have been audible throughout the whole damn Village. He can't remember, but once the infection took hold he had probably been reduced to a gibbering madman. Hells bells, why had she bothered?

"You're not very pretty right now, my boy. Rest up, you have a lot to do in the near future." Snow walks over to the door, but hesitates with his hand hovering over the call button. He comes back and sits down in the chair again.

"My boy… the attendants will hold off on the pregnancy test for now. A crew will be sent to twelve in a weeks' time to start planning the wedding. That will be soon enough to test her. She had better test positive."

Fuck, he should have seen that glaring flaw in the plan. Check, again. Is Snow just toying with him?

In District Twelve, a woman knows she's pregnant when she misses her period. Or, if getting enough food is a problem for her and missing her period isn't all that unusual, she finds out when she begins to show. Everyone over ten knows that. He'd forgotten that in the Capitol they have much quicker ways of knowing.

"I guess that's up to her and the boy, seeing as I'm stuck here," he ventures, testing the waters.

"No, you have too much to do to waste time lying in bed. You'll be going back to 12 this evening or early tomorrow morning, on the same train as your children. Your handler and a few medics will go with you to make sure you heal properly."

Balthamos is going to twelve with him. He's going to be tortured in his own house, less than a hundred yards from the kids.


	11. Trapped

Disclaimer is attached to first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 11**

Shortly after the train gets underway his caretakers leave him alone in his cabin. As soon as they're gone Haymitch braces his hands under his chest and pushes himself up in the bed. His arms shake violently with the effort, and he has to lean forward and hang his head until the room stops spinning. '_In no condition to be moved'_, that had been the sniffed verdict of the one who had jabbed the needle into his neck right before they'd left. He's dismayed at how weak and off-balance he feels. Nothing hurts, but every cell in his body screams for him to lie back down. There's no pain, but at the same time there's a palpable feeling of _suppressed_ pain.

He wears a blue satin robe with the seal of Panem embroidered on the left side in gold thread, so that it rests right over his heart. The robe is tied loosely at the waist. The only other thing he is wearing is a pair of black silk briefs. He's very much aware of just how much of a wanton whore he looks like right now, especially when you add in being stoned on pain meds. If there are actual clothes in the cabin, he doesn't have the energy to find them.

The stuff they put on his back must have had a numbing agent in it. At first it had felt cold and wet and somehow heavy, like a load of smooth river stones pressing against him. Now he can't feel anything at all from shoulders to waist. It's unsettling, but at least he can breathe without crying.

Katniss opens the door a crack, just enough to slip through and push it shut again behind her. She pauses inside the door, looking at him without a word. He can see her trying to hold herself together, and what if he's too late? Her eyes are over-bright and her hands twitch at her sides. Picture of a girl at a loss for words, actions, everything.

He wants to get up and go to her, but he's weak and unsteady from the wounds and the drugs and the aftermath. He's afraid he would fall, and if he did she might bolt like a wild animal.

"Come here, girl," he says instead. She shakes her head once, but comes to him even so. Her hesitance flees as she reaches him, and she sits down beside him on the bed and puts her arms around him and lays her head against his chest. Haymitch just holds her and strokes her back. _Too late, too late, too late._

"Katniss, fuck, I'm so sorry," he whispers.

She nods without looking up. Why won't she say anything? He makes himself ask.

"Did they hurt you?"

"No," she says finally. She draws back so she can look him in the eye, pushes lightly against his chest to distance herself. "They were going to. But when we got to the Capitol they said we were going back home. What did you do?"

"Where's Peeta?" he asks, looking around the room.

"He was in the observation car. I wanted to come alone. I thought you might be…"

He waits, not understanding.

"Dead." _Oh. That._

She hurries on: "When we last saw you, you wouldn't wake up and your skin was rotting off. Then three days after they took you away they showed up to collect us. We both thought you had died. Peeta's been nearly catatonic."

Haymitch shakes his head, bewildered as usual by the fact that Peeta really does give a damn about him. "Caring about me is going to get that boy into a world of trouble someday."

Katniss waves this aside as something neither of them can do anything about. "You are okay, aren't you? I mean, can you walk?"

He rolls his eyes. "_Katniss._ I'm stoned on pain meds, half drunk, and apparently being weaned off something called Ciprolen. Yeah, I can walk, at least until I fall on my ass."

"I'm so glad you're alive," she says sarcastically.

"Go on, go get your much better half," he tells her with a manufactured smile. He has to tell them. So how is he supposed to tell a pair of sixteen year old virgins that they've been ordered to breed immediately?

There's nowhere near enough time to prepare himself for seeing Peeta again. Katniss… seeing her is like coming home. She and he- the two of them understand the basics: never admit that you're scared; distance is the only way to deal with all the shit; the light you see way out there is only the first tendril of the flames coming to engulf you. In a moment of sparkling clarity, he understands that when the time comes for him to kill himself she won't stand in his way.

Peeta comes into the room like an avalanche, unstoppable and totally ignorant of the basics- also scarily quick. He seems to just disappear from the door and reappear beside Haymitch on the bed. It makes Haymitch think that he's a lot more stoned than he was even a few minutes ago. Careful, now…

Peeta hugs him crushingly, then draws away and regards him with sharp eyes. "Are you okay? You're shaking. Should you be sitting up?"

"I'm fine. I can't even feel it right now."

"That doesn't mean you're fine," Peeta returns promptly. "Lie down, okay?"

Haymitch slants him an incredulous look and then turns to Katniss. "How do you stand the constant fussing?"

Katniss shrugs. "Ignore it, mostly."

"Don't make light of this," Peeta says, scowling. "You have no idea what it was like to watch Thread whipping you and be so _helpless_ to do anything."

"No, but I'd guess it was a goddamn picnic compared to being the one cuffed to the fucking post," Haymitch growls. What he remembers most is screaming. The memory of screaming is worse than the recollection of the agony. He'd tried so hard to keep quiet. They should never have seen him like that. Damn it. No wonder Peeta treats him like a starving mongrel with a busted leg.

"I would have taken your place if I could have. Nothing could be worse than watching that happen."

"Bullshit. You have a power fetish. Anything that makes me more pathetic and needy is fine with you because on some level it gets you off, doesn't it?"

"No." Peeta shakes his head in vehement denial of the ugly accusation. "Haymitch, you don't really believe that. Look." He hesitates, trying to think of another way to say this. "Not everything is about sex."

"What's going on?" Katniss breaks in. "Please, Haymitch, just tell us. Tell us why they're letting us go home."

Haymitch looks at her scornfully. "You can't possibly be that naïve. You _know._ Stop screwing with me."

"Be quiet," Peeta says with a quick look towards Katniss. "You're not thinking straight."

Haymitch's gray eyes move between them for a minute. He shrugs- and nearly falls down as the simple movement causes his entire back to painlessly tighten and twist sideways.

"Lie down," Peeta insists, and now there's a hand on the back of his neck pushing him down onto the bed as another hand pulls away the arm he'd been leaning his weight on. He's too dizzy not to go along with the hands and the voice.

"Sit down, you two," he says from the pillow. "Fuck's sake, don't stand over me like that. It's bad enough, isn't it?"

"Alright, Haymitch. We're sitting down, okay?" Peeta takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Irritated at Peeta's obtuseness, Katniss drops to the floor and crosses her legs.

"Hey," she says, to get Haymitch's attention on her and off of the power-play Peeta is so oblivious to. "Tell me. How'd you get them to let us go back to 12?"

Haymitch meets her eyes. This is going to be hellish. "I didn't save you from _anything_. I told you a long time ago there was nothing I could do to save you," he reminds her. As defenses go, it's not much. She's going to hate him. They both are.

Katniss waits, impassive.

"You have to get pregnant."

She gets up and takes a couple of steps towards the door, backing away from him. She's shaking her head. "No. No."

"What do you mean?" Peeta asks from above him, where he can't see. He's lost the ability to gauge intentions from voice alone.

"I mean- you have to impregnate Katniss as soon as possible. Within the next week." He feels dirty just saying the words. They were his idea, and now the kids will always hear those demands in his voice.

"No!" Katniss yells. She flies at him, scratching the side of his face, crying wild curses.

"Stop it!" Peeta cries in a startled voice. He grabs Katniss around the waist and hauls her away, lifting her off her feet as she continues to struggle.

"Let me go, Peeta!" she yells at him, staring daggers at Haymitch.

Haymitch stares back, wary but also darkly amused. So that's what they mean by 'catfight'. Not that he put up much of a fight. But still, _scratching_? She's such a _girl_.

He's back up on his elbows, and that's a little better. The side of his face stings where she got him, but he resists the impulse to touch it. He doesn't want to see blood on his fingers. If he does, he might forget where he is.

"Calm down! Katniss, just stop and let him explain. Please?" Peeta is still holding her back. She stamps down on one of his feet, and he drops his arms with a muffled '_argh_'.

"Fine. Explain," Katniss fumes at Haymitch. "Peeta, touch me again and I'll kick you right in the balls."

"Alright, everybody, can we please just institute a no-touching rule? No hitting, kicking, scratching, or anything else. Let's try it for ten minutes, how about that?" Peeta sounds pissed.

"I don't think a no-touching rule is going to help your situation," Haymitch drawls.

"Shut up," hisses Katniss.

"Explain," demands Peeta at the same time.

Haymitch looks down at his hands and lets them clench in the sheets a few times. "Okay. Let me make this very easy for you. You have two options: You can marry each other and have a kid together, or you can spend the next few decades getting assaulted by rich Capitolites." He looks up to see if this is sinking in. And of course it isn't. Nothing will ever be that simple with Katniss.

"Why? That wasn't the deal before. Why did it change? What was the deal before, and how can you threaten to let them _rape_ me if I don't agree to be bred like a _goat_?"

"You stupid, sorry little kid," Haymitch says. He begins trying to push himself up again, but stops after a couple of seconds. It's hopeless; this whole fucked up situation is just hopeless. "Fine! If you'd rather be raped and tortured by every perverted freak in the Capitol than marry Peeta and have a kid, well, you have fun with that, _honey_. Too bad about dragging Peeta along with you, yeah?" He turns his furious gaze on Peeta. "Don't take it too hard, boy. She doesn't have any more sense than a damn chicken."

Katniss looks at Peeta almost pleadingly. "Don't you get it? We _can't_. Any child we had, they'd turn into a weapon. They'd own us."

"They already own you," Haymitch scoffs. "They own you and Peeta and certainly me. Or are you on this train just for a thrill?"

"Katniss, we need to try it, okay?" Peeta speaks up. "We're going to think of a way out of this. All of it. I promise we will." His eyes briefly meet Haymitch's. "But in the meantime we all have to survive as best we can."

"Being pregnant and having a baby will only increase your influence, you know," Haymitch says thoughtfully. "It would keep you in the spotlight, give you a platform. Maybe you could do something with that."

"A baby is not a path to power and influence! It's just a helpless creature I'll have to protect. And if it lives to be a teenager they'll take it away and kill it in the Games. And I'll have a front row seat," she says, glaring at Haymitch.

"You won't be alone," Peeta tells her. He's groping for a reassuring, confident tone. He feels like he's been punched in the gut, but someone has to convince Katniss to accept the less horrible alternative here. And she seems to be in a 'shoot-the-messenger' mood, so that leaves him. "I'll help you protect the child. So will Haymitch. And we'll find a way out of Snow's power long before our son or daughter is old enough for the Reaping."

Katniss's eyes move slowly between Peeta's earnest, determined face and Haymitch, barely managing to even hold himself up on his elbows but too stubborn to lie down. She doesn't look particularly reassured.

"I think the girl's too smart for your pep talk," Haymitch remarks.

"That's not helpful," Peeta says shortly.

"Do you really think we should let Snow order us to get married and have a kid?" Katniss asks.

"I think it's the only sensible course open to us. Could you really let Snow turn you into a prostitute?"

"No," Katniss says, her eyes sparking.

"I could never live with them doing that to you," Peeta says sincerely. "I'd die first."

"Goddamn teenagers," Haymitch mutters, uncomfortable and angry. Peeta will convince her; he's good at this sort of thing. Haymitch wants them to go away so he can lie back down. He feels miserable and tired and just much too sober for this.

"It's so messed up that I'm even considering this," Katniss says, ignoring Haymitch's surly grunt. How can she have a baby with Peeta? She doesn't even know how she feels about him. But Snow has trapped her with brutal efficiency. The doors have slammed shut faster than she could hope to keep track of, ever faster, and now…

"Okay," she says, and she's remembering all the way back to the very beginning, onstage and determined not to cry (I won't give them the satisfaction. I can't look weak. I _won't._) "I'll do it."

"Okay. Okay, good," Haymitch says, even as part of his mind turns away from all of this and begins trying to shut down. It isn't until then, with her words and his hanging between them like a condemnation, that he knows he'd hoped she'd refuse. He'd hoped there would be nothing more he could do. He curls his fingers into the sheets and forces a more realistic hope to coalesce: just that he can keep his head off the pillow until the kids leave.

"There are pills you have to take," he says. "They're in the box on the nightstand."

"Which of us?" Peeta asks.

"Her. Three of them. One each day for three days before you do anything."

"Fine," Katniss says, snatching the small black case. She shoves the offending item into her pocket without as much as a glance at it. "Anything else?"

"Katniss-" Peeta starts, but she talks over him.

"I'd like to be left alone now. So- is there _anything else_ I need to know?" The words come out a little rushed, and she wants to leave as much as Haymitch wants her gone.

"No, that's all. For now." Absurdly, he finds himself laughing at those words. Have more meaningless words ever been spoken? Maybe the alcohol is finally kicking in.

She escapes without a backward glance at either of them, shutting the door behind herself with a definitive click.


	12. Refuge

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: This is another M-rated chapter. Nothing 'on-screen', but very disturbing stuff alluded to. References to non-con and torture. If you're too young for such material, please do not read this one. This is based on a nightmare that freaked me out too much to go back to sleep.

Note 2: Thanks Jodinia and Mydarlingferocious105 for the follows!

**Capitol Nights**

The door flies open and Peeta jumps to his feet as Haymitch darts into his house and shuts the door behind himself. He fumbles with the lock, clumsy in his haste. His gray eyes are wide with terror, and he's twitching like a horse left out in a thunderstorm. Peering at him from across the room, Peeta sees that he's frantic, almost out of his head.

"Peeta, please, can I stay here? Just for a little while?" He's looking back and forth between the door and Peeta, and nothing about his behavior is remotely like him.

"Of course you can. Haymitch, what's wrong?" Peeta approaches with slow steps, until he's close enough to lay a hand on the other man's arm. Haymitch jerks away as though the touch burns him. To Peeta's dismay, he begins to sob. He raises his hands to hide his face, like the final touch of madness. But the picture gets even worse: he's clearly afraid to take his eyes off either the door or Peeta, and the result is that his hands jerk up and down like some horrible clockwork toy.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please let me stay! I can stop!" he begs, batshit crazy with fear.

"It's okay. Everything's okay," Peeta tries to soothe him. "Hush, now. It's alright. I'm here." He's aware they're the meaningless nothings one uses to calm a young kid after some silly nightmare, and blatantly the wrong words for this situation. But he's at a loss and beginning to be frightened, himself. What could make Haymitch, of all people, behave like this? The most important thing in the world right now is to get him to stop crying and looking around in such helpless terror.

Haymitch is taking deep, loud breaths, trying to regain control. His voice is still tremulous when he says, "Sorry. Please, let me stay here for a little while. Just ten or fifteen minutes, okay? If I can just get that much of a break, I guess I can-" He looks back toward the door, eyes getting wide and starey. Peeta quickly moves to distract him.

"Come sit down." He guides Haymitch to the dining room table, both relieved that his touch is accepted this time and worried by the way he can feel the muscles of Haymitch's forearm jumping even through the fabric of his long sleeved shirt. The clumsiness is still there. If anything it seems to have gotten worse. He keeps tripping over his own feet. He no sooner drops into the chair than he grips the edge of the darkly shining table and hunches over, beginning to retch.

A reflexive thought passes through Peeta's mind, long ingrained and unconnected to any specific situation: _Get a bowl before he throws up on the floor._ But he doesn't want to leave Haymitch unattended for even that long. _Then at least pull his hair back._ If he tries to do that Haymitch will probably bite him. All of his mother's rules are useless in this situation. He suspects he is, too.

After a long moment the retching sounds taper off into a few weak coughs and gulping swallows. Haymitch sits up enough to put his elbows on the table, shoulders still raised. There he huddles, looking down.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

Haymitch directs his words at the table, his tone bleak and miserable. "There's this thing called a shock wand." He flinches a little at the words, and then continues. "It hurts like hell. Balthamos was- he was trying to teach me something. I kept doing something wrong. I don't know what. He didn't tell me what. Maybe he just likes using it. He puts it inside me, and it hurts like hell. I shouldn't have run. That was stupid. But he kept doing it over and over, and I thought he'd just go on until I died of it. Stupid, stupid." He slams a hand down on the table. "_Fuck_! Well, he'll definitely do it again _now_."

Peeta knows he needs to stop staring, knows that's exactly the wrong response right now. Being sick probably wouldn't be helpful either. He also knows Haymitch would never have told him this if he wasn't in such a state. There'll be no protecting him from Balthamos, but he has to do something other than stare.

"A shock wand? When you said he puts it inside you, did you mean…"

Haymitch won't look at him now. He's starting to come back to himself, and shame is overcoming the fear and desperation.

"Of course that's what you meant," Peeta says softly. He comes around the table, noting the way Haymitch follows his movements and leans tensely away from him. Such mannerisms have become a part of him now, impossible to hide even from Katniss. It's as though some sick, blackened part of his mind is rising to the surface, gaining more of a hold every day this goes on. In that rapidly growing region of his psyche, even Peeta might become one of his tormentors. Even Katniss.

He takes the man's wrists and draws him out of the chair, sits them both down on the floor. Then he pulls Haymitch into his arms and just holds him. Haymitch lies against his chest, head tucked down so that his hair hides his face. There's something in his hair, pale and shiny and wet-looking, and Peeta thinks he knows what that fucking sick bastard was 'teaching' Haymitch. He hugs the man closer.

This episode, so thoroughly unlike anything that came before, is a turning point. Haymitch is no longer just disturbed, or traumatized. In a single month, he's become neurotic. How much longer before it's a full-blown psychosis? How much more torture and sexual abuse can his mind take?

But there's no way to stop it. Part of this is surely aimed at scaring him and Katniss, making sure they continue to behave. Is Snow deliberately driving Haymitch out of his mind as a warning to the two younger and potentially more dangerous Victors of Twelve? Or is Haymitch being punished for something he or Katniss have already done, similar to how he was whipped because Thread couldn't whip Katniss? How much of the blame does he own for this wraith of lambent eyes and befouled hair and the incongruous gleam of diamonds?

"We can't let him do that to you," Peeta says uselessly.

Haymitch pushes away from him. "You can't do shit about it. And you should never have known about it. What the fuck is wrong with me?" Then he mutters, "Stupid whore."

"Nothing's wrong with you. You were scared. You don't deserve any of this. You know that, right?"

"He can't teach me what I'm not willing to learn."

Peeta snorts. "Hence the torture."

Haymitch glances at him, anger barely masking his humiliation. "I've been trying like hell all morning to avoid the torture. Don't you get it, kid? They've won. I'm nothing but a trained Capitol pet, now."

Peeta comes to a sudden decision. Come what may, this has gone far enough. If he lets Haymitch go back to that, or lets Balthamos take him back, it will be the end of any will to fight Haymitch can still muster up.

"You're staying here until they take you back to the Capitol. I'll call Effie if I have to, or Cinna."

"No. Balthamos will just send Peacekeepers to get me."

"Let him. I'm the 'proud father-to-be', Katniss is pregnant, and we're constantly in the limelight. Thread wouldn't dare hurt us or our families now."

"Peeta, no. It isn't Thread you have to worry about. If you defy Snow there will be repercussions. There always are."

"We'll deal with it. I'm not talking about some big, public gesture. No one in the district will be any the wiser. Katniss and I are still having a baby and getting married, as ordered, and they'll still take you back to the Capitol when they're ready to. You staying here for a week or two might not matter to Snow at all."

"It's a hell of a risk, and in a week or two it won't matter anyway."

"Haymitch, please just stay. I need to at least try."

For a long moment Haymitch is silent. Then he nods and mutters, "Okay."

"Good. Wait a minute." Peeta gets up and retrieves a damp towel from the sink. Dropping down beside Haymitch again, he says, "Hold still."

"What is it?" Haymitch leans away from the cloth, and then steadies himself. Peeta dabs at his hair without answering. He huffs slightly and takes hold of the locks so he can clean them more thoroughly.

"Oh. Shit," Haymitch mutters as he realizes what Peeta is cleaning out of his hair. He pulls away again, feeling hot and humiliated. He should just go kill himself. He can't protect anyone.

"Hold still, it's almost out," Peeta says in his familiar firm, reassuring voice.

'It's almost out'? What? The wand, a john's cock, that _thing_ the petite woman with the strawberry blond hair had been wearing?

He laughs jaggedly. "You sound like a guy in a bad porn vid."

Peeta replays his words, shrugs. "I wouldn't know about that," he says, working to keep the anger out of his voice. It's misdirected, and it's a relic of how uncomfortable he is with this new bit of knowledge about Haymitch's situation. And as if things weren't bad enough, Haymitch is getting into one of his ugly moods.

So he continues: "I'm going to keep you safe from Balthamos for the rest of the time that you're here. Now hold still and let me clean his mess out of your hair."

Haymitch knocks his hand away violently. "Screw you, Peeta. You would have fit right in, you know. They would have just _loved_ you. But- for now at least- they have me instead. So you can just go take a flying leap off the nearest cliff. Really, screw you." He stands up and stalks over to the kitchen counter, where he begins to yank drawers out and rifle their contents.

"What are you looking for?" Peeta asks. He stands up, too, but stays where he is.

"Knife. I'm going to cut it off. Maybe all of it."

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You can go upstairs and take a shower."

"Where the hell do you keep the knives? Shouldn't you have a different damn set for every day of the week, bread boy?"

"Haymitch, you can't cut your hair. You know you can't. Your stylists would be angry. Balthamos would be angry. Remember all those repercussions you were talking about earlier. I know it stings, but you can't mess up your look. It's not worth whatever they'd do to you."

Haymitch has gone still, letting the truth of it sink in. He does know. He's had this same hairstyle and same golden stubble since he was twenty-six. It had been his only modification. Now there's his mutilated ear, too. But still, things could be a whole hell of a lot worse than that. He can't cut his hair, and if he's going to be in front of a camera within the next three days or so he can't shave off the stubble. It's not worth the risk.

Snarling in rage, he grabs a heavy ceramic mixing bowl and throws it across the room as hard as he can. It smashes against the opposite wall, but already his rage is bleeding out of him. It's a relief to just feel tired and resigned again for a while.

Peeta flinches as the bowl hits the wall, leaving a sizeable dent. "Haymitch?" he inquires cautiously. "Calm down. Do you need me to leave for a few minutes?" He hopes not. Haymitch looks like he just might wreck the whole kitchen if he's left unsupervised. Even worse, he might give up on any tenuous idea of respite and go back to his own house.

"I hate being blond," Haymitch says to himself in a quiet, almost reflective tone. "I'm going to take a shower now. Sorry about your bowl."

"That's alright. I can make do with the other six," Peeta says sarcastically, watching Haymitch retreat up the stairs.


	13. Dark Parallels

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 13**

"Haymitch?" Peeta calls from the top of the stairs. He looks down the empty hallway. The sound of the shower running had cut off some time ago, but Haymitch hadn't come back downstairs. Peeta hadn't really expected him to. But it had given Peeta far more time than he'd wanted to think about what the man had revealed to him while half out of his mind with pain and fear and shame.

The bathroom door is ajar, and he can see that the light is turned off. Not in there, then. Peeta raps lightly on the door of the guest bedroom. There's a beat of silence before Haymitch replies from within.

"Yeah?"

"It's Peeta. Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

The monosyllabic responses aren't as reassuring as he could have hoped, but at least he's not throwing things at the wall anymore. "I'm going to visit Katniss. Do you want to come with?"

"No."

"Haymitch… Can I come in?"

"Your house."

Peeta opens the door. Haymitch is sitting on the bed, leaning forward a little. He is wearing the same clothes he had on earlier, but his hair is wet and brushed back. He huffs and shakes his head before he speaks.

"This is the part where we talk about it, right?" Bitter sarcasm drips from every word. "What's there to talk about? He's assaulted me more than a dozen times and he's used the wand on me even more than that. He's done it before, he'll do it again, and there's nothing you can do to help. That all the talking I want to do about this, ever. Okay?"

"Okay." Peeta nods. He's embarrassed, and he has to work to look up and meet Haymitch's eyes. When he does look up, Haymitch isn't looking at him anyway. Somehow this makes Peeta feel even worse. His eyes suddenly feel hot, and a lump has risen in his throat.

"I think things have gone beyond the point where a chaperone would do any good."

"A chaperone?" Peeta asks, swallowing thickly.

"You and Katniss. Me going with you to visit her."

"Oh. Right. Look, don't talk like that in front of her, okay? She's still a little freaked out by all of this."

They're falling back into their normal rhythm now. It's a status quo shot through with pitch and scarlet streaks of embarrassment and rage and helpless despair and choking shame, and it's a miserable struggle to maintain it. Of course Haymitch didn't come back downstairs, and he should have left him alone. But leaving Haymitch alone up here as though he doesn't give a damn (or as though being around him is embarrassing now) would have been despicable. The only thing Peeta's sure of anymore is that he is useless.

And so they struggle on, and it gets a little easier. It helps that both of them genuinely care more about Katniss than they do about anything else at this point.

"Imagine how well she'll take it when her belly starts growing."

"I have imagined it," Peeta says quietly.

Haymitch offers him a smile, nods in acquiescence to the request Peeta didn't even know he was making. Peeta moves forward into the room and sits beside Haymitch on the bed.

"She'll come around. She's stubborn, is all. She'll see that having a kid isn't the end of the world, even here and even now."

"Thanks. It's just that-" Peeta sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Sometimes I think she's more upset about me than she is about the baby. Marrying me, and what we did."

"Everything is about sex, isn't it? I suspected."

"I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about this." Peeta sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I could just really use some advice."

"Don't you have a father you can talk about this with? Come to that, where _are_ your parents?"

"They're back at our old house in Town. After the wedding, Katniss is supposed to move in here with me." He suddenly adopts a TV announcer voice, broad-worded and jocular. "You're looking at the future home of Panem's most famous couple, the Star-Crossed Lovers themselves!" The words seem to hang in the air of the tidy little bedroom, and he wishes he could call them back.

Haymitch banishes them with a laconic, "Cozy." Then: "Let her alone."

"What?"

"The girl did what she had to do. Give her some time to-" what, forget? Cope? "To deal with it before she has to move in here and see you every day."

"It's not like I wanted to do that either, you know," Peeta says heatedly. "Not that I didn't like it!" He blushes, floundering for words. "I mean- you know what I mean!"

Haymitch actively resists the impulse to groan and put his face in his hands. He really, really does not want to be part of this conversation.

"It was good, okay?" Peeta continues. "But our first time shouldn't have been like that. She was a virgin."

"Yeah, I figured."

"I would have waited as long as it took for her to be ready. Even if it wasn't until we were thirty."

"Such a great and storied age," Haymitch muses sarcastically.

Peeta looks over at him, exasperated. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me."

"Of course you would have waited. Not your choice. Not your _fault_. She could do a lot worse than marrying you."

Peeta nods, acknowledging the compliment as much as their status quo will allow. "I'm still going over there. She needs to know she's not alone in all this. You should come along. She'd like seeing you."

"I'm going to the Hob. Grocery run."

"There's liquor in the cabinet over the fridge."

"Well you just think of everything, don't you?"

Ignoring his tone, Peeta says, "Why don't you get a bottle and come along? It really only amounts to making sure she hasn't run off into the woods or gone on a killing spree, and being there if she's crying."

"Oh gods, really?"

"She hasn't yet, but my mom says pregnant women do that a lot," Peeta says stolidly.

"It's probably best that I stay here, considering how our last conversation went."

Predictably, Haymitch is going to make him come right out and ask. "You will stay here, won't you?"

Haymitch spreads his hands, smiling sardonically. "Where would I go?" Dropping the pretence, he gives Peeta a sudden and unsettling grimace. Something like hate flashes in his gray eyes, and Peeta is startled enough to draw back from him. For just a second, Haymitch's lip curls away from his teeth like a dog guarding a farmyard.

"Go on, kid. Go pester Katniss for a while. I guess she'd better get used to it." The hate is gone, if it was ever there, but his voice is a rough and slightly garbled half-growl.

"Haymitch?" Peeta says uncertainly.

"Get out of here." Haymitch clenches his fists and stares down at them.

"Okay," Peeta says, standing up. "I'll be back soon." He heads for the door, walking slowly. At the door, he looks back at the hunched figure on the bed. "Please, stay here, okay?"

"_Goddamn it, Peeta_!" Haymitch roars at him, springing to his feet. He shoves the nightstand over with a hard jolt of his open hands, and the lamp that had been on it clashes to the floor and breaks. Peeta steps back away from him, shutting the door quickly. He leans against it, heart hammering. There's another loud crash from inside the room, and Peeta tries to think what it could have been. Maybe Haymitch has upended the bed.

Shaking his head, Peeta retreats towards the stairs. He's really horrible at this, worse than useless. Haymitch had tried to tell him that he needed to be alone, and he hadn't even been able to handle _that_.

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Prim opens the door and smiles at seeing who it is. Katniss always perks up a little when Peeta visits and she'd been particularly moody and withdrawn today. "Come on in. I'll get Katniss."

"I'm here," Katniss says, coming into the hall. "No bread this time?"

Peeta looks down at his empty hands, as though noticing for the first time that he lacks the usual offering. With everything that had happened today, he had forgotten all about the pumpkin bread he had planned to bake her. "Sorry." He tries for a joking smile. "I'll bring you twice as much tomorrow."

She smiles back at him, and her smile is no more genuine than his. At least she's making an effort, which reassures him that she doesn't blame him for this. Peeta hates this, longs for the closeness they had just begun to achieve together before Snow's latest attack. He smiles stiltedly at her from a few feet away and thinks: _I could have made you love me_.

"So- how are you?" he asks.

"Good, all things considered," she replies with a heartbreaking amount of carefulness just beneath the icing of casual conversation. "And you?"

"Good. I'm good, too."

"Let's go in the kitchen," Prim says brightly, letting her encouraging smile fall on each of them in turn. "Mom made deviled eggs. We'll feed you for a change, Peeta."

"That sounds great," Peeta says, relieved. He had actually started to wish Haymitch had come, just to break up the silences.

The three of them troop into the kitchen and Prim insists they sit down while she gets the platter of eggs and glasses of milk.

"Milk, milk, milk. That's all I get to drink anymore," Katniss gripes, sounding almost good-humored.

"You like milk. Don't sulk." Prim grins as she sets the glass in front of her sister. Katniss grins back and sticks her tongue out. "Well, I suppose _someone_ must count the flowers on the upstairs wallpaper," Prim says in an exaggerated put-upon tone. "You two will have to make do without me." She leaves, skipping a little because laughter is contagious and if you can't laugh plain silliness will sometimes serve almost as well.

Katniss drains her glass of milk and sets the empty vessel back on the table. She looks at it in a dispirited way that Peeta finds deeply disturbing for a second, without knowing why. Then the feeling of unease is gone and Katniss's direct gray eyes are fixed on him.

"If it's a girl, I want to name her Rue."

"Do you really think that's, well, prudent?" Peeta asks, watching her.

Katniss frowns and her eyes throw out sparks. "I don't care. They shouldn't be able to just forget her. We're throwaways to them, all of us from the districts. They kill us, and the next day they don't even remember our names. Well, they're going to remember Rue. She was twelve, and they killed her, and I'll never let them forget. And if it's a boy, we're going to name him Thresh."

Peeta regards her, feeling harried and overwhelmed. He's emotionally exhausted from the hellish evening he just spent with Haymitch, and sometimes it seems to him that the other two Victors of 12 _must_ have secret strategy sessions to coordinate these things. It's the only explanation.

Pushing that singularly unhelpful idea aside, he tries, "We don't have to decide this right now, do we? We have nine months. Let's just think it over."

"What do you want to call it?" Katniss asks truculently. "Coriolanus?"

"That's not fair. I just don't think it's smart to paint a target on our child's back." It's important to sound calm and reasonable, he reminds himself.

"Your definition of 'smart' keeps Snow and all his cronies in power." She glares at him as though he's the most cowardly fool she's ever had the misfortune to meet.

"Right, it's entirely my fault!" Atta boy, he tells himself. Good job on the calm and reasonable. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. His head is starting to hurt. "Look, let's not fight. I'm not saying we can't name her Rue, or name him Thresh." He avoids saying 'it', as he has from the start. "I'm just saying we should be careful and do what we need to do to keep our child safe."

"Wake up, Peeta! None of us are safe! None of us will ever be _safe_!" There's an edge of hysteria to her voice, and he comes around the table to sit beside her and refuses to draw any parallels. There _are_ no similarities in the tone of her voice, or in his actions. None _at all_.

"Hey, it's alright. We'll think of something. I promise you our child will never have their name in the Reaping bowl." He lays a hand on her arm. "You know I'd do anything for you, right?"

She studies him. "I believe you'd try."

"And if someday 'anything' means killing Snow myself, so be it."

"Peeta!" She's startled into a laugh. "You ridiculous, naïve, pandering _jerk_!" She tries to stop smiling, then gives up and laughs again.

Peeta nods seriously. "I'm probably a little of all those things. But I'd still do anything for you."

"Fine!" She waves a hand imperiously. "Go forth and kill Snow and save us all. I command it!"

He smiles to show her that he doesn't mind her teasing, but his voice doesn't change. "Listen to me, Katniss. I'll only say this one more time, but someday I'll prove it. He'll die before he ever sells you in the Capitol and before his sick Games ever touch our son or daughter." There's no talking to her tonight, and he probably should check on Haymitch soon anyway. He gets up to leave.

"Goodnight. I'll be back tomorrow. I love you." Peeta heads for the door.

"Peeta, wait," she calls from the table. He turns back, and after a few seconds of silence she gets up and comes to him. She hugs him, and he hugs her back at once. That's one of the nice things about Peeta, and she feels a rush of something that might, in a better world, have been love. She inhales his scent and lets herself relax a little as his strong arms encircle her.

"I'm still naming it Rue or Thresh," she says against his chest.

"Fine names," Peeta says stolidly, giving her a gentle squeeze.

Katniss smiles and pulls away from him. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

"I don't think that's a great idea," Peeta says with some reluctance.

"Oh, okay." Katniss steps back, surprised and a little hurt. Is he angry about the names? Well, tough, she tells herself. But she doesn't want him to be angry with her. His visits are the only things that seem to work for her over the last week or so.

He reads her thought in her eyes and says, "No, it's nothing like that. It's just- Haymitch is staying with me, and he's in a mood."

"Why is he staying with you?" That's not like him at all, especially during his more surly interludes.

Peeta shrugs, at a bit of a loss. "Who knows? He's not very talkative today. General contrariness?" Katniss is clearly not buying this, and he really should have anticipated this question and come up with something.

"So he just showed up at your house and announced he was sleeping over?" Katniss scoffs.

Peeta realizes he is shuffling his feet and stops too quickly, and then looks up at Katniss to see if she caught the movement. Great, now he's giving her the startled-deer look. She narrows her eyes at him in return.

After a few seconds Peeta says, with an air of reluctance, "I think his back still hurts a lot more than he wants to admit, and he probably didn't feel up to walking to the Hob when his liquor supply ran out."

"Oh." That explains everything. Katniss still wonders why Peeta feels any obligation to cover for Haymitch, to collude in his adolescent denial. If Haymitch is too proud to admit the obvious, Peeta will try to ignore it, too. She considers her options. "Is he alright?"

"It's all relative," Peeta says noncommittally.

"I guess I'll stay here, then," she decides. She doesn't really want to see Haymitch, not yet. It's wretched to feel that she can't speak to one of the only two others who share her cage in this hell, but she just can't.

Looking past Peeta into the warm glow of the hall, it strikes her that the light in this house is piss-yellow. It makes Peeta's skin look sallow and mutes the bright blue of his eyes into something dull and murky. The carpet under his feet is the color white carpet becomes after years of careless, thoughtless people have tracked mud and grime and filth all over it, grinding it in deep. This place is so ugly. It's a joke, a taunt, something for the Capitolites to laugh up their sleeves at. How could she have not noticed that before?

Peeta smiles at her, not at all liking the cold, distant look on her face. "Well… goodnight, then. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you." By the time he says the final words of his refrain, she has turned back to the table with indifference written in every line of her slender silhouette.


	14. Temporary Measures

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 14**

There are three people huddled together on his front step, and even before he gets close enough to see them clearly Peeta knows they're Capitolites. It's in the way they turn toward his approach like a single being, staring at him through the frost-stricken night with bright, lively eyes. One of them- a man with a round face and short, curly brown hair- steps forward and waves at Peeta as though to flag him down. Peeta stops a few feet away from them and watches the other two, another man and a woman, swivel their gaze anxiously back and forth between him and their leader.

"I'm Peeta Mellark," he says before the curly-haired man can speak. "You're trespassing. Please leave."

The trio draws closer together until they're actually brushing against one another. The woman smiles a sunny, meaningless smile at Peeta and clutches the leader's shoulder.

"Hi, Peeta. We know who you are, of course," Curly-Hair says pleasantly.

"Of course," the woman interrupts, her smile widening.

"I'm Thaddeus, and these are my associates: Shilana and Herodotus."

"Big fan," Shilana interrupts again, and she puts her chin down on top of the hand already wrapped around Thaddeus's shoulder. Next she'll climb up his back and perch on his shoulder like a deranged monkey, Peeta thinks bemusedly.

"We're medics from Victor's Hospital, in the _Capitol_," Thaddeus emphasizes. He raises his eyebrows, trying to convey to Peeta that he should be feeling very impressed by this information. Awed, even.

"We really must see to our charge," Herodotus speaks up for the first time, his voice petulant and over-loud in the still winter night. "We've been knocking on this door for more than ten minutes!"

"How very inconvenient for you," Peeta replies with counterfeit sympathy.

"Oh, that's quite alright! All part of the job!" Thaddeus declares heartily, winking at Peeta. Herodotus voices a loud cry of disgust and throws up his hands. Shilana wraps her free arm around Thaddeus's neck and stares hungrily at Peeta.

"Haymitch is staying here. Get out of my way, please." Peeta moves past them to get to the door. As he passes Shilana, she reaches out and pats his face lightly and quickly. Peeta jerks away, startled and affronted. He gives her a hard stare. Her thousand-watt smile doesn't even falter.

"That's fine with us," Herodotus says. "Makes our job easier. We told Balthamos that Haymitch wasn't recovered enough for T and C, but would he listen to us?"

"Heavens, no!" Shilana laughs. "We're only his assigned caretakers, after all!"

"T and C?" Peeta asks.

"Training and Conditioning," Thaddeus supplies. "It gives him muscle tremors, and you would think it would be obvious why that was a bad idea for someone in his condition."

"Some medics you are," Peeta says without thinking.

"Balthamos outranks us," Thaddeus replies a bit stiffly. "Perhaps we could go inside now? It really is horridly cold out here."

"Where's Balthamos?" Peeta asks them, looking around with sudden unease.

"Not with us, certainly. I doubt you have any concept of how far from recovered he is from his little misadventure with your Peacekeepers. If he doesn't get his regular treatments, the exposed tissue on his back will dry out and die."

"Fine, come in." Peeta unlocks the door as he speaks, letting himself into the heat of the house and leaving them to scramble in his wake. "I'll ask him if he'll let you treat him."

"Ask him if he'd rather end up getting the dead tissue cut away and be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life."

The three of them resume their huddle in the entryway of Peeta's house, whispering amongst themselves and shivering in their theatrical, overdone way. Their presence here is repugnant, but at least they don't seem inclined to drift throughout the house. It would be gratifying to shove them back out the door as soon as possible. He shakes his head and goes upstairs.

Peeta knocks on the door to the guestroom and calls, "Haymitch?" There's no sound from within. He knocks louder. "Haymitch, can I come in?" Still nothing. Bracing himself against the possibility of thrown furniture, he opens the door.

Haymitch is sprawled out on the bed, still fully dressed and also tangled in the sheets, passed out drunk. He's lying prone, golden hair fanned over the side of his face, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed. The dresser and the nightstand are both laying on their sides, and the mosaic of the shattered lamp flashes up shafts of light from the floor.

Peeta crouches by the bed and collects the pieces of broken glass, finishing by running his hand lightly over the carpet to make sure he got them all. He deposits them in a corner for now, where at least no one will step on them. Then he returns to the bed and takes up Haymitch's trailing hand to wake him by digging the knuckle of his thumb into the palm.

"Gerrof," Haymitch mutters, his voice heavily slurred.

"Haymitch, are you awake?"

"_Gerrof._"

"I'm not _on_ you. Come on, wake up." But it's clear that he's much too drunk. Sludgy semi-coherence is going to be the best he can do tonight. Still, Peeta tries to make him understand. "The medics from the Capitol are downstairs."

"Huh." Haymitch doesn't open his eyes.

"Do you understand me? Is there anybody in there?" Why would anyone want to render themselves mindless like this on a regular basis? How bad does it have to be to make destroying your ability to think seem like the desirable option?

"'E henschmen. 'Ell 'em ta leave."

"You need treatment. They said you'll end up in a wheelchair if your back isn't seen to."

"Huh."

"Open your eyes, now," Peeta coaxes.

"Drunk, can ya see 'at? Lemme sleep."

"Alright," Peeta surrenders. "Go back to sleep. I'm just going to have them come up here and take care of your back, okay?"

He doesn't even get a grunt in reply this time. Haymitch has slipped back into the embrace of his drug, and it would do about as much good to address his question to the broken lamp and the cracked furniture. Peeta lifts his arm up onto the bed and then goes back downstairs.

"He's dead drunk," he informs Thaddeus. "Is what you're going to do going to hurt?"

Thaddeus shakes his head. "He won't even wake up. And we're prepared if he does, of course."

Shilana adds, "We know everything there is to know about treating him by now."

"Come on, then," Peeta says, doing nothing to hide his dislike as he leads them up the stairs.

"Are you and he-" Shilana starts, then breaks off with a titter.

Peeta looks back at the odd sound. Was that a laugh? "Are we what?"

"Having each other!" she declares. "You're so _protective_! It's adorable! Oh, are you?"

Peeta fixes his gaze straight ahead and clenches his fists. Keep walking, keep walking. "No. No, we're not." No wonder Haymitch thinks everything is about sex. He's trapped around these kinds of people so much of the time, and they've seen to it that he's in an agitated, suggestible state.

"This isn't very pretty," Thaddeus says as they enter the guestroom, with an air of bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "You'll want to leave this to us and go work on your paintings or something."

Peeta gives him an incredulous look. "I was there when he was whipped. I can handle it."

"Oh, he's so brave!" Shilana proclaims rapturously. If she was anyone else, Peeta would be sure she was making fun of him. He contemplates her wide smile and dewy eyes and a sudden shudder comes over him. This, then, is one of his fans from the Capitol. And just how well are medics paid?

Herodotus minces past him and begins tugging at Haymitch's shirt, and Peeta redirects his attention to the bed. The Capitolite isn't making any effort to be gentle about it, but Haymitch doesn't stir at all. In this state, it would require actual pain to wake him.

"Look at this! We specifically told him not to get the dressing wet!"

"And did you really expect compliance from him, my dear Hero?" Thaddeus asks in a calming manner. "You know how closely he needs to be watched. It's really Balthamos's fault for letting him go haring off like that."

Herodotus sniffs. "Well, let's get it off him and see how much more work he's managed to make for us."

The blue dressing covers Haymitch's entire back, shading into a darker blue-green in the places where the water has soaked all the way through. The border, wrapped around his sides and over his shoulders, is coated with a shiny amber substance, some sort of adhesive. Thaddeus removes what looks like a makeup brush from his case and begins to work his way around the edges. Peeta watches Thaddeus closely, and Shilana watches Peeta closely.

The dressing lifts off in one stiff piece, making a faint, reluctant cracking sound. If anything, Haymitch's back looks worse than the last time Peeta saw it, when he lay dying on Katniss's kitchen floor. It's an angry-looking purplish black, and the skin is thin, fragile, and completely translucent now. It spiders into a mass of fine wrinkles between his scapulae and in the depression of his lower back while looking painfully taut over his ribs.

"Get out," Peeta mutters very low. The words escape without conscious thought. It's impossible to feel anything but pity for the horribly maimed figure, and Haymitch would hate this, must hate this, being seen this way. It's wrong. It's sick. The only humane thing to do is to cover him up and let him die. Something like that must be agony.

It _is_ agony, but that's just the first and least of what it is. His leg is literally rotting in front of him while the sadistic Gamemakers leave them perched here on the Cornucopia and the hours pass. The sun beats down relentlessly, the bloodthirsty Capitolites look on, and in the end he will die to entertain them, of course he will, just another game piece after all.

Peeta turns away, shaking his head, sick with despair. The leg he no longer has is throbbing, pain shooting from his missing foot all the way up to his knee. 'Phantom pain', they call this, and tell him it's something impressionable people imagine they feel from time to time. By 'impressionable' they mean backwards, or even a bit dull witted. But what would Capitolites know about pain?

"Is it always going to look like that?" he asks the room, not turning back around. He rubs at his thigh just above the knee, kneading the muscles there.

"He'll get a couple of coats of synthetic skin once we get him back to the Capitol. This is just a short-term plasti-net."

"Well, it's _meant_ to be short-term," Herodotus grumbles, prodding at the mutilation with some sort of round-edged instrument.

Shilana glides over, looking doubtful. "He's right, Thad. That won't hold together much longer."

"I'm sure we won't be here much longer," Thaddeus soothes.


	15. Modifications

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: Thanks to TheGyrhan and Sunshinebear711 for the follows, and a happy holiday to all of you who have read this far!

**Capitol Nights, chapter 15**

Balthamos is waiting for him on the train, waiting in ambush like a villain in one of those absurd Capitol flicks. He even has an appropriately ominous opening line ready: "What am I going to do with you, Haymitch?"

"Sure you'll think of something." Haymitch braces himself against the wall next to the door and scans the room, squinting. His eyes don't really want to focus, and the scenery keeps doubling. A chair, a chair, where is a chair? He won't be on his feet much longer. But there's only the bed in this room, and damned if he's going to run from this bush-league Marquis d'Sade again. Even if he could make it back down the hall.

"Indeed I will. There's no one for you to hide behind here, Haymitch. Get on your knees, why don't you, and we'll see if you remember any of what I taught you."

Haymitch chuckles drunkenly. "Sure, I'll do that, but you're going to end up covered in vomit. That's probably not a problem for you, is it? I bet you like vomit. Piss, too. Have you got a bit of a scatological fetish swirling around that tiny mind, Balthamos?"

Balthamos takes an unobtrusive step back, wrinkling his nose. "Okay, then. I'll let you sleep it off before we resume our lessons. We have plenty of time, after all. The rest of your life," he says with a vulpine smile.

"Yeah. The rest of my life," Haymitch says. The haze of the alcohol cushions the words, makes them seem small and unimportant. Pushing off from the wall, he makes his careful way towards the bed. It's almost possible to ignore Balthamos, when his mind is in this comfortably numb state, and when Balthamos obligingly stops quacking. He'll just sit down, or maybe lie down, and think about sailing wax, whatever that is.

Balthamos watches him stumble to the bed and collapse onto it. He knows exactly what his charge needs. He's had two weeks to think about it while he sat by himself in that trashy little house adjacent to the trashiest section of the trashiest district in all of Panem. He'd even ventured out into the so-called town once, in the name of getting a full understanding of what he was dealing with. Like pigs rooting in a sty, the 12ers seemed happy in their squalid surroundings. It had been quite a sociology lesson.

The particular boar he has the task of training is as filthy and stupid and cowardly as all his degenerate brethren. The trouble comes from his being more than two decades past the usual training age. They're much easier to tame when they're taken young. What this one needs is an ever-present reminder of who owns him, something that won't let him forget his place the next time he's away from his masters for a few weeks.

Balthamos had known Haymitch would show up drunk. He had counted on it. Now he goes and stands over the figure half-curled up on the bed. Haymitch slits his eyes open and looks up at him before letting them fall closed again. Balthamos smiles thinly.

"That's right. You go on and pass out. I'm here," he murmurs. He sits down near the foot of the bed and makes himself wait. At length he stands up, giving one of the man's legs an absent pat. His mind is already jumping ahead. Yes, this is art. This is why they give the hard cases to him.

He goes to the door and pushes it open. "Socrates? He's ready for you."

The man he summons into the chamber has a shoulder-length mane of snow-white hair, streaked with metallic silver. His eyes are yellow and slit-pupiled. His breeches are lemon-colored and puff out at the hips and thighs. His slinks more than he walks, his eyes wide and his mouth curled into an eager smile. He carries a black briefcase, which he sets on the floor.

"Table. I need a table for my gear," he says in a quick, pinched voice.

"Just a moment, please." Balthamos regards him, a little annoyed. "You're not high, are you?"

"No. Never. Never work high."

"This has to be a good job, you know."

"I _am_ good," Socrates hisses.

"Of course you are. That's why I called you," Balthamos says peaceably. "I'll get you a table."

He leaves briefly, returning with one of the chairs from the dining car which he drags over and sets by the bed. Socrates has already pulled Haymitch's arms out and rolled his sleeves up above his elbows.

"You might want to go ahead and sedate him. He can be an unpredictable brute when he first wakes up," Balthamos remarks.

"Yes, yes." Socrates begins removing items from his suitcase and spreading them out on the darkly shining wood of the chair. One of the items is a capped syringe full of clear liquid. He snags it with two fingers, uncaps it with his teeth and spits the cap onto the floor. He grabs the unconscious man's chin in a heavy hand and tilts his head back. Haymitch stirs a little at the rough movement, eyelids fluttering. Then Socrates sinks the needle into his jugular and slowly pushes the sedative. When he lets go of Haymitch's chin, the head falls to the side limply.

There are no further signs of waking, and certainly there is no resistance, as they position him flat on his back. Nor as they spread a white towel over him and lay his bare hands and forearms on top of it. Nor as the buzz of Socrates' instruments begins.

They finish their work a little bit more than two hours later. As Socrates lovingly repacks his gear, Balthamos smears antibiotic ointment on Haymitch's wrists and hands and bandages them. Then they leave him to his sleep.

The sedative begins to wear off, and Haymitch rolls onto his side and draws his arms up against his chest. He moans without waking up. Filigree swings her axe into his hands again. He'd brought them up to hold his intestines in, and now he can't move them. Miserable but unafraid, he wishes she'd hurry up and kill him. In the dream he knows he doesn't want to survive this.


	16. Labels and Expectations

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: Siriuslybananas, thanks for the comment. I don't follow actors, at all. I'm more of an alternate universe fan. That said, I do like the look and the voice WH lends the role.

**Capitol Nights, chapter 16**

Tonight he doesn't even bother with going to a bar. It's his second night off- an entire night, this time, his reward for being such a good boy. He has to be back by 7am. His cuff will chime once at 6am and twice at 6:30am to tell him it's time to get his ass back to the Cell. Beautiful little set-up they have going here. The only way he could miss his summons would be if he were passed out drunk.

Haymitch shakes his head briskly, as though the notion were some tangible thing to be shaken off like cold water. "I've got to protect the kids," he reminds himself with a mad little smile. He hoists the newly purchased bottle of vodka in a toast to his invisible companion. "Be strong."

The impulsive gesture draws his eyes back to his hand, and he lowers the bottle quickly. The plan for tonight is to find somewhere to drink until he's nicely situated between woozy light-headedness and passing out. Ideally, it will be somewhere where no one else is likely to come within ten feet of him. After that, he'll go back to the Cell and pass out there like a good little pet. Hell, he might even pass out in bed. It's not like it makes any difference.

He'd been fucked on a bed for the first time the previous night, fucked on his back like a damn _woman_. So it doesn't _fucking_ matter anymore, does it?

His hands are wrecked. And he really can't avoid looking at them. His eyes are drawn to them a hundred or so times an hour. He finds himself staring at them, drumming his fingers to make sure that they're still connected. Funny, he would have thought they'd hurt more. Something like that should hurt.

The backs of both wrists and hands are tattooed with cascades of roses. They're outlined in black and the few leaves are tattooed a deep forest green. The roses themselves are painted in with a semi-permanent skin dye, white and infused with glitter.

He'd buy gloves to hide them, but the streets seem to be lined only with boutiques competing for the tackiest dresses. He has no idea where he would find men's gloves, or if such tame accessories even exist in the Capitol. There is a park, though, and that's as good a place as any.

A woman in strips of neon silk catches his eye and waves, casting him a wide smile that glitters with diamonds. Resisting the initial impulse to stare at this odd vision, he casts about for an isolated place to sit. Twenty-five years of training himself not to react to their ludicrous costumes and absurd mannerisms and unctuous accents, helped along by countless sharp nudges from escorts and stylists, and he had become all but impervious to the whole crazy carnival. And then this had descended on him, and he finds himself looking away quickly and hiding his smirk like a twenty year old.

There's a bench under a large tree perhaps fifteen yards from the lake, and he decides it will do. Dropping his body gracelessly onto it, he takes a few gulps from the bottle and coughs at the burn of it in his throat. Laying out his free hand on his thigh, he wiggles his fingers just to make sure. Knowing that they are his hands, and they still obey his brain, and they are only very faintly painful- knowing all of that is not at all the same as believing any of it. Snow might as well have branded him and been done with it. It couldn't have been any more disfiguring or degrading than _this_.

"Hello, beautiful," a sultry male voice intrudes. "Mind if I join you?"

Haymitch looks up, fixing a snarky smile on his face. "Piss off, jackass," he drawls, playing up his district accent. His 'leave-me-alone' persona, call it the Crude Redneck, usually sends all but the most stubborn so-called fans pattering away with a cavalcade of offended clucks and ruffled feathers.

Finnick O'dair stands several paces away, smiling back cheekily and practically oozing sex appeal. Haymitch flicks his eyes away for a second and shrugs one shoulder minutely. _Didn't mean you._ Although it's clear enough that Finnick is not taking the words to heart, anyway.

"Finnick." He nods a greeting and takes another drink.

"Haymitch." Finnick stretches out his name as though rolling it across his tongue and savoring each letter. Now that they've acknowledged each other, he comes within reach and sits on the other end of the bench under the tree. "They've prettied you up, haven't they? Let's see those hands."

Haymitch tucks his free hand under his jacket. "Don't be an ass."

"Don't be a drama queen," Finnick returns promptly.

Haymitch growls. "You think I can't take you on, Finnick?"

"Ah, the tedious 'outraged guy' bit. It's just your hands, Haymitch." Finnick leans towards him, lowering his voice insinuatingly. "It's not like I'm going to _rape_ you."

Taken aback by the bluntness of it, Haymitch looks away across the park. "Bloody hell, you're such a bastard," he mutters.

"Oh, aren't we using that word yet?"

Haymitch swallows back his anger and shame and some more vodka. Finnick's had nine years of this. If this is his way of coping, the only thing to do is put up with it. Haymitch's own plan is to somehow keep going until the kids are safe (not bloody likely) or until Snow takes them and there's nothing else he can do. One or the other, and then he'll kill himself.

"Yeah, I guess we are," he concedes. "Want to get drunk with me?" For the life of him, he can't think what else he can offer. Anyway, it's what Finnick will be expecting.

Finnick shakes his head. "Not really my thing. Want to have sex?"

He'd been right at the start. 'Piss off' had been just the right opener for this encounter.

Finnick sees his look and says, "I'm not mocking you. I'm just suggesting a little mutual comfort and commiseration. You might even like it."

"Finnick…" Haymitch stares at the grass in front of their feet for a moment. Shit, Finnick is as fucked up as he is. "Maybe you should take up drinking."

Finnick sighs, sounding almost wistful. "Worth a try…"

Haymitch conjures up what he hopes is an encouraging smile and sets the bottle on the bench between them. He doesn't want there to be any chance that Finnick's hand will touch his. It would just be really great if he could get through one night without anyone touching him. He hides both hands under his jacket.

Finnick takes a small drink. "You _like_ drinking this stuff?"

"It's an acquired taste."

They sit in silence for a few awkward minutes, watching the colored lights reflecting off the artificial lake. Genetically altered water lilies float here and there, glowing pink and orange- mutt flowers.

Haymitch shifts uncomfortably. He should say something. Finnick is watching the lilies with a small but genuine smile, as though he's never seen glowing flowers before. His look is rather too intent, and Haymitch contemplates the likelihood that he's high on something. "You don't have to do that, you know. You don't have to act like the person they pretend you are."

"I don't have to act like a slut?" Finnick clarifies, still watching the lilies and smiling.

Haymitch settles lower on the bench, hunching his shoulders defensively. "Sorry, that was patronizing bullshit."

"Yeah, funny how the labels lose their bite, isn't it? It becomes a bit like saying I've got copper hair- or gray eyes."

Haymitch, for whom the shame and humiliation is still so sharp that he's become dependent on nightly sedative injections, simply nods.

"Sometimes I just get this crazy urge to actually _choose_ who I climb into bed with," Finnick says.

Haymitch shudders. "Does it have to be in a bed? Bed isn't a great place for me," he says with gallows humor.

"Bad experience?" Finnick asks sympathetically. "Man or woman?"

"It was a man." Haymitch keeps drinking to steady himself. "He fucked me on my back with my knees up against my chest. And I let him do it." He laughs darkly. "Like saying I've got gray eyes."

"I got raped while bending over the back of a sofa last night. Do you think I resisted?"

"You can't, can you?"

They both stare hard at the mutt lilies.

"If you change your mind, I come here most evenings when I'm in the Capitol." Finnick picks up one of Haymitch's damaged hands and this time Haymitch lets him. Finnick examines the glittering white roses and then lets it go. He brushes his hand off on his pants. "You should think about it."


	17. Dearly Beloved

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: Thanks for the follow, Cursed Moon Blade!

**Capitol Nights, chapter 17**

This may be their last moment alone before it happens. Peeta can hear the music filtering through the thick mahogany doors. It's a lively, pretty song. The singer has an unusual accent, something with rolled, purring r's and hard vowels. She's clearly not Capitol, not by birth anyway. Her voice soars above the flutes and piano. A love song, of course. It's either a very fitting accompaniment for what he's about to do, or it's a sign that this is hands-down the _worst_ thing he could do in this moment.

Attired in her wedding dress and jewels, Katniss looks stunning. She's facing the doors, waiting for them to open and usher her down the path. Now that the moment is upon her, she's calm and composed. Just beyond these doors is a wide, scarlet-carpeted aisle; she will walk down it. There's nowhere else for her to go from here except down the scarlet path.

"Katniss?" Peeta says, and she turns toward him. Her movements are paradoxically infused with preternatural stillness. His words flee, and they just look at each other in their glittering finery. Peeta is wondering what's going on behind those bright gray eyes, fearing her response to what he has to say, and doubting everything. Maybe he should just say something safe and expected and inane, something like 'You look beautiful.' Then she would turn back to the doors, and they could both ignore his impious interruption.

"Katniss, I need to ask you something," he says instead. He won't be a coward, not now. He can't be.

They're both too young for this. They're not ready. They're not ready to be married, and they're _years_ away from having the emotional equipment to be parents. Peeta had always supposed he would marry and have kids someday, without ever really thinking about it. That was far in the future, and he hadn't even settled on any realistic prospect for the girl he would have a family with yet. He'd thought he had time.

"Alright," Katniss says in a tone which clearly indicates that nothing he could say could possibly matter in this moment. "Ask."

He's not ready to be married and not ready to be an expectant father. But Katniss wasn't ready to be pregnant, nor to lose her virginity on the order of a twisted, sadistic dictator. And no one could ever be ready for what's been done to Haymitch.

So, ready or not, he can't be a teenager anymore. They can't just keep being three messed up 'teenagers' struggling to keep their heads above the tar. He takes a deep breath.

"Katniss Everdeen, will you marry me?"

Her eyes widen. Momentarily speechless, she looks down at her elaborate dress. "Do I have a choice?"

Inwardly, Peeta winces. "I guess not." That's a weak answer, a coward's answer. Say it out. "No, you don't. And I'm sorry about that. But you're a brave, extraordinary person. You deserve a real proposal, at the very least."

Katniss casts a look at the doors, and then looks back at Peeta. "I didn't mean it like that," she says quietly, as though confiding a secret to him. She sighs and casts about for words. "It's just-" There are no right words. "Let's not make this anything other than what it is, alright?"

"I would have proposed to you eventually," Peeta tells her, hoping she will hear him. They don't have much time left. "I hate how this is happening, but I don't hate the idea of marrying you." There's ice in her stare, and he should really stop before this gets any worse. "What I mean is- under other circumstances, marrying you would have been one of the happiest days of my life." Her silence is unbroken.

Peeta turns toward the door, shoulders slumping. This is all a sham, a continuation of a popular love story, just an ongoing television show for gossip-hungry Capitolites. That's all it will ever be.

"Peeta-" Katniss starts to say something, and in that moment the doors swing slowly outward. They both startle a little.

Then Peeta smiles and takes her arm, fixing his eyes on the end of the aisle. President Snow waits for them there. His own well-known enigmatic half-smile seems to widen for a second and become gloating and malicious. It's gone in a flash, and Peeta assumes he imagined the change. Snow's altogether too wily for such a display in such a public place.

Katniss fixes her own smile in place as they begin their slow walk down the aisle. "Yes, I will," she murmurs in a light, casual tone that will give away nothing to anyone who overhears. "Thank you."

Peeta nods, carrying on her ruse. But he can feel his face relax into a more genuine smile.

They reach the end of the aisle and stop before Snow, Katniss to the right and Peeta to the left. Effie steps up to Katniss, holding a necklace of red and white roses woven together with thin gold wire. Katniss bends slightly and bows her head while Effie drapes it over her. Effie steps back.

There's a few seconds of waiting silence. Peeta looks at Haymitch, trying to send him a message with his eyes. The four of them had rehearsed this just last night.

Haymitch looks bizarre and thoroughly unlike himself. His hair is tucked back on the right to show off the line of diamonds that covers the entire edge of his ear. The one he'd torn out in a hotel room weeks ago has been replaced. His sleeves are turned up to just below the bend of his arms. The roses tattooed there are stark white and dazzling with silver glitter. His hands clutch a black velvet-covered box. His hands are shaking, which only makes the glitter flash more prominently.

"The ring, please," Snow says in a mildly humorous tone. There's an appreciative titter from the audience. Belatedly, Haymitch takes two jerky steps toward Peeta and holds out the box. He had been holding the small box in both hands in order to steady himself as much as he could. When he extends the one hand by itself it shakes so violently that Peeta has to make two grabs for the box before he catches it. The laughter is louder this time. They think he's drunk again. Peeta can see him sweating even through the make-up they've layered on to hide it. And by the way he keeps his eyes half-closed, it's clear the light is hurting him.

Haymitch steps back and Snow begins his speech.

"My fellow Capitolites, citizens of Panem- the long awaited day has arrived! Today we all bear witness to the marriage of two young people who have truly inspired us. They fought with courage and with honor in the 74th Hunger Games, becoming the only joint Victors Panem has ever had. Or _shall_ ever have," he adds, his good-natured humor reaching out to include the entire audience. There's a burst of spontaneous applause, accompanied by not-a-few cheers. He lets it continue for a moment, and then raises a hand for silence. "But Katniss and Peeta achieved even more than that. Amidst the pageantry of the Games and the excitement of the Arena, they found that rarest crown of all- true love." Whistles and cheers from the audience, many of them now leaning forward. They're eating this up.

As though struck by the impulse at the same moment, Katniss and Peeta lean towards each other and kiss. They separate quickly, but Peeta keeps hold of Katniss's hand.

"Now, now," Snow chides laughingly. "You aren't married quite yet."

"Sorry," Peeta mutters through a silly grin, ducking his head a little to be sure his collar mike picks it up. Katniss doesn't manage to blush as Effie had suggested, but she grins and ducks her head for a second.

"In the weeks since, we have all shared in their joy as they grew closer. It was two weeks ago today that they contacted me at my office to request special permission to get married as soon as possible. Their call actually interrupted a rather important meeting!" He pauses to give the audience time to enjoy this image. The thoughtless impropriety of Districters! How silly! "Well, our Star-Crossed Lovers are a bit young, but I think you'll all agree with me when I say they are a perfect match. What better marriage partner for a Victor than another Victor! And if you had seen their call two weeks ago I doubt you could have brought yourselves to make them wait two more years, either. So, here they are, about to make their everlasting commitment to each other. Peeta?"

Turning toward Katniss, Peeta tries to steel himself for whatever expression will be in her eyes. It's not as bad as he expected. She smiles back at him, and her beautiful gray orbs are deep and unknowable. Looking into those eyes feels like falling down with his feet still firmly planted on the floor. It's more like flying, maybe. It's indescribable. Then she bats her eyes at him, and he's able to continue.

"I take you, Katniss, as the loving, true-hearted, caring person you are and will always be. We will celebrate many more triumphs together as we spend our lives with each other. I will love you through all our years and all that life brings us.

"I love you unconditionally and without hesitation. As a family we will create a home filled with laughter and light. We are far more together than we could ever have been alone. Today I choose you to be my wife and offer myself in return.

"I will share in your dreams and strive alongside you to bring glory to our District, and to Panem. Let us be partners, friends, and lovers today and all of the days that follow."

When her turn comes, Katniss's voice is even and her smile unfaltering. She'd thought Peeta was going to freeze up for a moment there. But he had carried the performance, just like he always does. By the second sentence she'd caught on that that long pause was part of his flawless act, meant to convey awe or adoration or something. She'd spent the next couple of lines smiling and trying to recall if she'd held up her end or not. Had she kept smiling? She hadn't done anything stupid like mouth his lines at him, had she? She can't remember. She decides it doesn't matter anyway. The entire audience would have been so busy drooling over Peeta in that moment that she could very likely have crept away unnoticed. If she'd pushed Effie into her place in passing, she might not have been missed for several minutes.

"I take you, Peeta, to be my husband, my constant friend, and my lover from this day forward. I promise to love you, to laugh with you, and to cherish you for the rest of our lives.

"You are my one true love. My love for you will grow greater each day. Today I give you my hand and my heart. I choose you to be my friend, my lover, the father of my children, and my husband. I am yours, now and forever.

"I eagerly anticipate the chance to grow together, for the glory of District 12 and all of Panem.

"Panem today."

"Panem tomorrow," Peeta replies.

"Panem forever," they say in unison.

"The ring," Snow prompts.

Peeta snaps open the black velvet box. The ring is large and elaborate: a twist of platinum set with a ruby cut to resemble a glittering flame and traced with lines of diamond. It's beautiful in its own startling way. She could never wear something like this in 12. It's beautiful, and it's the most Capitol ring she's ever seen.

Katniss holds out her hand and Peeta slips it onto her finger.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Snow says ceremonially. "And _now_, you may kiss the bride, my boy."

Involuntarily, Peeta bristles at the mocking words. He doesn't want to kiss Katniss on the command of this man who is well on his way to destroying everything Peeta cares about. He's done performing, at least for now. This travesty that should have been his wedding has gone on long enough. He'll just give her a quick peck on the lips and then they can get out of here. And maybe someday Katniss will forgive him for his collusion in all of this.

In that second, something makes him look over at Haymitch. Haymitch is shifting from foot to foot, barely able to keep his balance. His arms are crossed and his hands tightly grip the fabric of his shirt. Even so, Peeta can see them shaking. He doesn't look up, but he seems to sense Peeta's eyes on him. He gives a single distinct nod.

Peeta looks back at Katniss, wraps his arms around her and kisses her deeply. She kisses him back, and they try to block out the cheers and whistles that erupt all around them. There's too much at stake to do anything else.


	18. Jumping In

Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Warning: This is another M-rated chapter. It contains non-con. If you're too young for such content, please do not read this.

Note: I've adopted the idea of poetry as Haymitch's 'talent' from the excellent story 'Haymitch's Games', by Hufflelit. It's too cool an idea not to use. But, alas, _not_ originally my idea.

Note 2: Thanks for the follow, Branbran0206! And to all of you who have read this far, may you have an interesting 2015…

**Capitol Nights, chapter 19**

He lifts one ruined hand and knocks on the door, one-two-three mechanical raps. His heart is thumping unpleasantly and his head feels swimmy. He'd been to Wenceslas last night, and that one's like a twenty-four hour bug. Last night had been the worst yet, really one for the album. It's stuck in his head now, throwing out sensations and words with the unavoidable madness of a strobe light.

And so he waits, eyes on the blood red carpet and hands tucked unconsciously under his arms. His hair has been washed and brushed into a state of silky iridescence, now always put back on the right to show the diamonds. He shakes as he stands in the hall, and once he turns in a quick, tight circle. He hopes it's a man tonight, one who will let him just lie still. Because he can't, he really doesn't think he can…

The door's not a wall anymore. He walks forward, hugging himself, letting the serene, modulated voice roll over him. Stopping, he begins to undress. Something is in the way; his hands are caught and held.

"Hold on there, Haymitch. Not yet."

He knows that voice from somewhere. Is it Wenceslas again? It shouldn't be, not two nights in a row.

"Are you on something?" A rough hand grabs his chin and forces his head up. Unwillingly he meets the eyes of his owner for the next three hours. He hates this. Why do they always want him to look at them?

"Haymitch?" The man sighs; Haymitch guesses it as frustration, maybe disappointment. "Speak," he orders.

"Fine," Haymitch says. "Are you going to fuck me or not?" _What are you doing? Snap out of it! Protect the kids. That's all that matters._ His mind judders back into frame with a clang of rusty gears. The john will always show you what they want if you pay attention. He waits for the hint, readying himself to play along.

"All in good time. Come over here and have a seat."

From what Haymitch can see, the entire hotel 'suite' is just one huge bedroom. There are no chairs or couches in evidence, not even the ever-popular mahogany escritoire with its overly ornate bench. But then, if there was other furniture the room's occupants probably wouldn't notice it. The bed is a huge circular monstrosity that completely arrests the attention. Covered in layers of black silk, it must be twelve feet across. There it stands, all by itself in the middle of the room, the Isle of Fuckery. Haymitch imagines hundreds of other men and women being fucked on this very bed. How many of them had been whores like him? How many had just wanted it to be over?

"On _that_?" he asks, and rolls his eyes. "Tell me that isn't a mirror on the ceiling."

"I'm afraid so," the man says, sounding rueful. "Ostentatious is what I was aiming for."

Haymitch licks his lips, the way a wild rabbit sometimes does when it smells something distasteful. He strides over and sits on the edge of the bed, patting the sheets next to him in invitation. "Join me. We won't get anything done with you way over there."

The man smiles cynically and takes the offered spot. "Do you even recognize me?"

"Yeah, sure I do. You're the rich Capitolite who's going to bugger me on this particular evening. I never forget a face."

"Not an entirely wrong answer. I am rich, and I am going to have you. But I'd hoped we could talk first."

"Whatever. It's your time."

"Look at me, Haymitch. Really focus. Don't you remember me?"

Haymitch winces as though in sudden pain. His gray eyes flick up past the man, towards the ceiling. Sinking back down, they pause.

"Plutarch Heavensbee," he says dully.

"Yes," Plutarch says, relieved. He had almost given this up as a complete dead end. The man before him seems a lot more addled than he had been led to believe, and much less sharp than he would have thought based on the couple of times they had spoken before. "Very good."

"Nice one." Haymitch appears to be talking to the empty air, and Plutarch tells himself that surely they wouldn't send the man to clients if he was high on something. "The Head Gamemaker himself. This'll be something to think about while I'm watching next year's kids die in the arena."

"How far would you go to put an end to the Hunger Games forever?" Plutarch asks out of the blue.

It brings Haymitch up short. It's a trick, almost certainly a trick. But what reason would Snow have for sending Plutarch to trick him? Snow already knows he hates the Capitol and their sadistic, ruinous Games. For Snow, Haymitch's impotent hatred is part of the fun. Why else would his hands have been branded with Snow's white roses? They killed his family and then made him into a whore anyway. Life served as a warning to the other slaves.

"You don't have to answer right now," Plutarch is saying. "Just think about it."

"Anything," he says abruptly. "I'd do anything." Then he sits back and waits to see what Plutarch will do now.

"Good. There's an underground, did you know that?" Plutarch's voice is casual even as his eyes probe Haymitch, measuring and assessing.

Haymitch twitches one rose-covered hand side to side in negation and then drops it back to the sheet. He's very aware of being judged, and he's ashamed but also furious. Here's what will happen next: This pampered, spoiled Capitolite will tease him with lies about a so-called resistance until he gets whatever reaction he's looking for; then he'll rape him to remind him that he's powerless, just a toy for others to play with.

But what if it's real?

"There's an idea that you might be useful. You and Katniss and Peeta," Plutarch continues. "So I'm offering you a chance to be part of the resistance."

"The kids won't do it. They've got families to protect, especially now," Haymitch says in a neutral tone. Don't give anything away. Just let it play itself out. But he's interested in spite of himself. Where's the angle?

"I think you might be underestimating them. But you're here, so we'll work with you first. Will you help us put an end to the Games and get rid of President Snow?"

"How could I help with all that?" Haymitch laughs and gestures around the room.

"Well, you're a proven killer."

Yeah, he is that. Fifty-four people and counting. Fifty-one of them had been kids.

"Killing kids is my Talent," he tells Plutarch with a shark-like grin. "That and really bad poetry. But they don't make me read poetry anymore."

"They don't want to showcase your Talent because it would make people curious about your Games. You'll know, of course, that your Games are the only ones past the first two that have never been shown in reruns?"

Haymitch nods. "Filigree should have won."

"But she didn't. Are you ready to give me your answer?"

"Who do you want me to kill?" Haymitch asks, to move this along.

"You don't need to know that yet. It will be someone highly placed in Snow's government. And quite a few persons like yourself will be glad he's gone."

"Okay."

"Okay? Is that a yes, you'll join us?"

"Yes, I'll join you." The words clang in the air with dreadful finality, and he suddenly snaps wide gray eyes to the door, waiting for the flood of Capitol Guardsmen to crash through. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head, you tawdry little clown.

"No one can spy on us here. We've made sure of that," Plutarch reassures. The bright terror in Haymitch's eyes heartens him. He's always been an astute judge of people, and he can see that Haymitch doesn't trust him. That's fine, for now. It's to be expected. But he needs Haymitch to _believe_ him, to take this seriously. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Haymitch drags his eyes away from the door through sheer force of will. He's in it now, both feet are in the cement, and it's much too late to worry about Plutarch tricking him. He'll have to take a chance on the Capitolite.

It's worth it, he tells himself for the first time. If there's any chance that it's true, then it's worth it.

"What now?" Haymitch asks.

"Now I'm going to have you. Your handler will probably check, and it would look very bad if I didn't."

"Right," Haymitch says resignedly. "How do you want to do this?" He begins undressing again, and this time Plutarch doesn't stop him. Instead, Plutarch brings forth a flask from his inner pocket.

"Here, drink this."

Haymitch accepts the flask; unscrews the lid and sniffs at the contents. They have an oddly sweet aroma. "Sleep syrup?" he asks, although that isn't precisely what it smells like.

"You're on a need-to-know basis for the time being."

Haymitch sets the flask aside. "Look, I can't just blindly obey you. It makes my hands hurt."

Plutarch nods, considering the statement. Those roses are horrible. Although Haymitch isn't to be trusted with such information yet, it was largely the tattoos that had convinced his first contact, Finnick, to recommend him. Even as one of Snow's whores, being managed by one of the most abusive handlers on the job- an asshole named Balthamos who only takes on older male Victors in need of breaking in- even in such a crushing position, he had managed to royally piss off no less a person than President Snow. Whatever else is going on in his head, he still has the guts to fight.

"I'll be your only contact until you move up a step. You need to trust me."

If there's even a chance it's true… And he finds that he's starting to really believe Plutarch. Weak, stupid, pathetic whore that he is. Have you still not learned the difference between what you need to be true and what is true? Here comes a candle to light you to bed, sweetheart.

Shut up, shut up.

"Real?" he asks himself and Plutarch and Wenceslas who isn't actually present on this particular night (but who will always be with him). Bullshit, two of the three agree.

He gulps down the contents of the flask like the liquor he wishes he had. It's sweet-tasting, smooth, and very cold.

"Excellent."

"Aw, not so much," Haymitch cuts him off, his voice poisonous and mocking. "Putting things in my mouth and swallowing is something I've practiced a lot recently." Instantly regretting the jibe, he looks down at the sheets. He feels hot and thinks he might actually be blushing. How stupid would that be?

"It's only a sedative. It will last for an hour or so."

He looks up. "Why?"

"We can't work together effectively if you associate me with being raped. This way is better. You won't mind so much while I'm having you, and you won't remember it in any detail."

Like all Capitol drugs, it hits fast and strong. One minute he's shrugging out of his shirt and not letting himself watch Plutarch watching him. And then, with no intervening time at all, he's lying stretched out on the silk. The shiny black stuff stretches on and on in front of him, further than he can reach. He slides one arm out in front of him a few inches and then gives up. Best not to move. Closing his eyes, he wonders if this is what dying feels like. If so, it's okay. It doesn't hurt. He hopes he isn't dying, but there's just very little emotion connected to the thought.

When Haymitch starts to list to the side, Plutarch catches him by the upper arms and pushes him backwards onto the bed. The blond man turns onto his side and draws his legs up so that only his bare feet hang over the edge. His arms move a little in front of him, reminding Plutarch of a dog having a dream. His eyes are half-open and unfocused. He is on his left side, and Plutarch leans over him and brushes back his golden mane so that the line of diamonds glitters in the light. Even half curled up on his side, the custom-tailored trousers accentuate his narrow hips and leanly muscled thighs. He's thin in a healthy-looking way, the outline of his ribs showing plainly against his skin without jutting. His chest is covered with a thin layer of fine, tawny fur. Picture of an adult male in optimal condition. This lifestyle seems to agree with him on a physical level, at least.

Plutarch takes off his own shoes and socks before undoing Haymitch's fly. "Lift your hips a little," he instructs, expecting no response. There isn't any, but it's easy enough to pull the trousers and silk underwear down and off of him, leaving him naked.

As a test, Plutarch gives Haymitch's bare ass a firm slap. Haymitch makes a quiet, slurred sound that is no more translatable than the whine of a dog. It might have been meant as 'ow' or 'fuck off', or anything else. What it means to Plutarch is that he's ready.

Plutarch drags Haymitch to the center of the bed and arranges him prone with his head turned to the side. "Don't want you to suffocate, do we?" he murmurs. He takes out his own half-hard cock and begins to stroke it to full hardness. Taking someone who is more or less unconscious isn't very exciting. This isn't about sex, and it's necessary to do it this way, but still…

This will go a lot quicker if he makes it a bit more enjoyable for himself, and Haymitch won't remember anyway. He hesitates another few seconds, waiting for sensible objections to occur to him. When none do, he begins spanking the other man. He keeps going until Haymitch's ass is a deep shade of pink. By then the man is whimpering and twitching as he tries to fight off the sedative enough to move. It's enough of a reaction to be getting on with. And it can't have been that bad for Haymitch, because once Plutarch stops it takes less than a minute for him to succumb to the drug again.

Once he's still and quiet, Plutarch lubes himself up and uses one hand to guide the head of his cock into position. Grunting, he begins to push into the man. Perhaps it's that being entered hurts less than being spanked, or maybe Haymitch is used to how this feels by now. In any case, he doesn't respond to it. Plutarch rides him, slowly at first and then faster, watching intently as his cock slides in and out of Haymitch's reddened ass. After only about ten minutes he pushes in all the way and cums deep inside Haymitch. He gives the man a couple more short thrusts as the aftershocks flow through him. As he pulls out, he tells himself that they're covered now if Balthamos checks. And Balthamos will almost certainly check, after all. It was necessary.

Haymitch's eyes are shut, now. The sedative wouldn't have caused unconsciousness, but it's very likely he's fallen asleep. Plutarch keeps an eye on him as he cleans himself up and puts his clothes back in order. They still have almost two hours until Haymitch's handler will come to collect him. There's time to let him wake up on his own.

Going to the mini-bar, Plutarch fixes himself a screwdriver and sits down to wait for the newest member of the Resistance to sleep off the effects of the drugs he'd had to be given. "Viva la Resistance," he mutters ironically. Now that there's nothing to do but reflect on things, he's back to doubting whether Haymitch will be any help at all. He would have been formidable once, no doubt, but that had probably been a couple thousand drinks ago. Twelve isn't known for breeding fighters, anyway. Just look at the abysmal showing they almost always make in the arena.

Katniss has potential, they all agree on that. Given the right guidance, she could be a powder keg. The Resistance badly wants her, and if Haymitch can be used to help get her on board that will be enough. And if the old sharp intelligence and defiant bravery can be kindled in him again… well, who's to say?

Speaking of, the man's already coming around. He turns back onto his side, hips slanting ludicrously up due to the pillows.

"Are you waking up, sleeping beauty?" Plutarch calls. Already?

Haymitch sits up slowly, knocking the pillows aside. "Damn it, how rough _were_ you?" he grumbles.

"You apparently have a high tolerance for the sedative."

"Yeah, figures." He looks down at himself, naked except for the diamonds in his ear and the gold cuff on his wrist. "How long do I have?"

"Another hour and forty-five minutes," Plutarch says, sipping his drink.

Haymitch sighs. Too early to get dressed unless the john tells him to. Judging by how much his ass hurts, he's almost certainly bleeding. Balthamos will like that, sick bastard that he is. Tight as a teenage virgin, and bleeding like one too. He hates himself. What's the point of living if this is all he is?

He sits there facing Plutarch, naked, and doesn't even pull the sheets up around himself. Plutarch feels a sort of weary disgust, which he tries to ignore. Those from the Districts simply aren't like Capitolites. To use an insensitive but accurate phrase, they don't know any better. Finnick will sometimes hold entire conversations while lounging naked in an armchair, a knowing leer on his tanned face. Unlike many Capitolites, Plutarch believes they can be civilized in time. But the first thing is to do away with the system that keeps them in the position of animals and slaves.

"Is Katniss really pregnant?" he asks.

"Yeah, she really is," Haymitch replies. "Congratcha-fuckin-lations, huh?"

"Is it yours?"

Now Haymitch does grab the sheet and yank it up over his lap. "Why the hell does everyone ask that? What's _wrong_ with you people? You think maybe Peeta and I butted heads like billy goats until I knocked him out and then rutted with the girl?"

Plutarch raises his hands. "Calm yourself. I was only asking."

"The baby is my punishment for getting in Thread's way, and the kids' punishment for having anything to do with me, and above all a great big slap down from His All-Powerful Highness Snow," Haymitch says, breathing hard.

"They didn't want to have a baby?"

"They were ordered to have one, by way of me. I hope you all enjoy the show."

Plutarch nods, filing the information away to consider later.

"I'll meet with you again soon and tell you how you can begin serving the Resistance."

"Sure," Haymitch says with a snort. "In bed, is my guess. Not that I'm complaining. 'Camp follower' is a better title than 'Snow's whore'."

"Given our respective positions, I could hardly meet you for brunch," Plutarch admonishes. "If you'd think about it rationally, I'm sure you'd be pleased with this arrangement."

"That's one hell of an ego you've got."

"Not at all. But I doubt if any of the other men and women who pay to have you allow you to sleep through it."

Haymitch shudders as the memories of last night seize him in their teeth. Hot water rains down on him. Hands roam all over his chest and thighs. He tries to focus on the hands but he can't, not even for a few seconds. _I knew you'd like it, sweetheart._

"Plutarch," he says roughly.

"Yes?"

"When you fucked me, did I get hard?" he asks in the same rough, growling voice.

"No, not at all," Plutarch responds without hesitation, a little disturbed. "Remember where you are, old fellow."

"No, of course not. I was drugged," Haymitch tells himself. His eyes drift up to the ceiling again. "You don't have to drug me next time."


	19. Come With Me

Disclaimer is attached to first chapter.

Note 1: Somewhat lengthy 'notes' follow, but most of it is in reply to a somewhat lengthy review. No warnings this time, so feel free to skip ahead to the story.

Note 2: Thanks for the follow, Bella184ever!

Note 3: Thanks for the review, Cursed Moon Blade. Seeing at least part of the 50th Games in the movies would have been awesome, but I'm not sure they could have done any better than the Youtube version by MainstayPro. BTW, have you watched 'The Hanging Tree'? It's by the same group. It's very effective, and just terribly sad.

What's the title of the Quarter Quell fic you mentioned? If you wouldn't mind IM'ing it to me, I'd love to check it out.

As to Haymitch slash fics, they certainly are a rare breed. I guess because the only 'major' male characters one could pair him with would be Peeta, Gale, and Finnick? And I imagine it would be tricky indeed to write Haymitch/Peeta or Haymitch/Gale without getting OOC. Still, more writers should pick a pairing and take a stab at it. I'd like to see more of it.

Well, I know of a total of six stories (which has to be some kind of record low for slash fics in a major fandom involving a major character). Of those, I think three are well-written and in-character. Don't know if it's exactly what you're looking for, but here goes:

'Gods and Monsters', by TheOnlyPotato- Finnick/Haymitch- Mostly Finnick angst.

'Two Shots Too Many', by Mithrigil- Haymitch/Chaff- available on (archive of our own dot org)

'To The Victors', by Isis- Haymitch/Cinna- available on (archive of our own dot org)

Probably there are a few others somewhere that I missed. Recommendations welcome!

**Capitol Nights, chapter 19**

He jerks awake, yelling in panic, lashing out blindly with open hands in an instinctive 'get-away-from-me'. The terror he feels in those first few seconds after waking up bypasses all rational thought, and if there really was someone attacking him this flailing wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. The crucial seconds have passed him by before he's with it enough to make a fist, or even to focus on the other person in the room.

"Katniss," he says, sinking back into the chair as his heart trip-hammers from the adrenaline jolt. The next layer of awareness clicks in, and he shoves his hands under his jacket with an exhalation that is almost a curse.

She looks down on him with cold impatience. "I brought you gloves."

"Gloves?" He flexes his hands against the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling the slight stiffness in them.

"To cover Snow's brand."

He winces, and on the heels of that he feels himself blush in shame. There's no prevaricating with Katniss, never has been. He brings his hands out and looks at them. They're clad in black gauntlets of some supple material he is unfamiliar with. The cuffs are elongated enough to cover all of it, secured with a strap and a silver buckle at their ends. The fingers are truncated just before the first knuckle.

"Thanks," he says. The word falls from his lips slow and careful, as though he fears mispronouncing it.

"It was as much for me as for you," she says back.

Haymitch lays his head down on the table. "What do you want?"

"Are they raping you?" The icy disgust in her voice hits him like a hard slap.

"Peeta told you," he says. Peeta. _Peeta_ betrayed him. Well, that was unexpected. "Goddamn him," he tells the scarred tabletop.

"He didn't tell me. I finally figured it out. They're raping you."

He looks at her, eyes glittering redly. "Yeah. What's the matter, honey? Have you had a little shock?" His voice drips with bitter sarcasm.

"Don't call me 'honey'." She looks around the room, revolted. Her eyes light on him again, flit away. "Why don't you call me 'sweetheart' anymore?"

"I think we've done enough sharing for one day." He waves a hand at her as though shooing away a fly, or a rat, or a damn _bird_.

"You want me to leave, you-" She seems to fish for an appropriate pejorative. "You bastard." He favors her with a bitter smile, because that was an unexpectedly kind choice. "Want me to leave you to your thoughts?"

"I don't give a damn what you do." He gets to his feet, a bit clumsy from the remnants of the alcohol, and lumbers towards the cabinets. If he's sober enough to walk and to feel the girl's disgusted gaze burning into him, clearly he didn't drink enough earlier.

"Come with me," she says from behind him.

He selects a dark brown bottle and gives it a practiced tilt. "You know, working yourself into these little hissy fits is probably bad for the baby. What would Peeta say?"

She sniffles a little and he upends the bottle and chugs as much of it as he can before he's forced to stop, gasping and coughing. They stare at each other in silent hostility for a moment. He holds out the bottle to her and she shakes her head.

"It's bad for the baby," she says, matching his bitterness with her own.

"Just as well. Who knows what I've picked up by now."

"That stuff would kill anything."

The thought seems to strike them both at the same time, and Haymitch watches Katniss's eyes turn to him in dark speculation. "You'd think, wouldn't you?" he says, then takes another long drink and smirks at her. "Nothing is ever that easy."

"Come with me," she says again.

He shrugs. "Yeah, sounds like fun. Let me just put on a dry shirt." Setting the bottle down on the counter, he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. There are a few piles of clothes scattered around the kitchen, and he goes to the nearest one and begins pawing through it. Her eyes weigh on his back. She's watching him, not moving or speaking, just watching.

"Turn around," he snaps.

She scoffs, a harsh and derisive sound. "You're a prostitute. How does it matter if I see you with your shirt off?"

"Those baby hormones are certainly doing a number on you, _honey_. Have they decided whether they're going to air the birth live on national TV yet?" he sneers, finally snatching a shirt from one of the piles. It reeks of spilled alcohol and sweat, but he'll be damned if he's going to put back on the shirt she just threw a pitcher of water all over. He pulls the shirt on, wrinkling his nose.

"Are you ready?" she asks, still watching him as though he might just sort of slink out of the room if she looks away. He must be morbidly fascinating to her this morning. He can understand her stare. It's not every day that you learn that the man who was supposed to protect you can't even defend himself.

She's wearing her father's old hunting jacket over a faded brown sweater and pants worn thin at the knees. Judging by how loose the sweater is on her, it might once have been her father's, too. This ensemble, Denial in Textiles, is finished off by a pair of scuffed lace-up boots.

"Just who are you supposed to be, honey?" he taunts her.

"Breeding stock," she answers back unsmilingly. "That, and a Capitol mouthpiece."

There's nothing to say to that, so he meets her eyes for the first time in weeks and says, "I'm sorry."

It surprises her. She'd expected vitriol and bitterness and disgust. She'd thought that was all they had left for each other. She blinks and looks away, rolling her words around in her head and testing each as she makes her halting reply. "It's okay. Really, it's okay. And- I know who you are now." That's not enough. She could tell him that she hates him for letting them do that to him. Or that she can never, ever repay him for saving her and Peeta from this. She could just tell him that she can't look at him without thinking about him servicing one of his _clients_. He disgusts her, and she can't help that, and he's too quick not to see it.

But she can't forget who _she_ is now, either. Her hand goes to her belly, and she can feel the gentle curve of it under her dad's old sweater. She folds her arms tightly under her breasts, pinching herself through the heavy cotton. She's been bred. Bred on Snow's orders, and by the male Snow had chosen. Just as though she were one of the silky little lapdogs Capitolites keep as pets. So what's more shameful- being a bed slave to the rich, or being part of the breeding program?

They're both ruined.

"Are you ready to go?" she asks one more time.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I guess I am." That one word comes out in Wenceslas's voice, much more cultured than his own and strangely accented. He's here; he's always here. But Haymitch has grown used to him, and he won't be interested in Katniss. S'okay.

He sets the bottle of liquor, still half full, on the table's wrecked surface. They'll destroy the table, before they move the next Victor in here. Years and decades of passing out here with a knife clutched in his left hand have rendered it as irreparable as he is. Looking at the table and the bottle, he tries to think of something else. There should be something more, shouldn't there?

She waits patiently through this. When he at last realizes there's nothing else to leave and nothing else that he can do, he comes toward her and she turns and leads him out of the house. It's early morning, the first hint of dawn on the horizon doing nothing to dispel the bitter cold. A thin rind of moon still hangs in the sky, and the ground is powdered with fresh snow. The Village is dark and motionless.

At the fence Katniss pauses, standing stock-still and listening. Haymitch walks right past her. He hesitates, for just a second before his gloved hand reaches out and grasps the wire, stumbles a little. But still he wraps his hand around it, tensing and closing his gray eyes. Nothing happens, and after a couple of seconds he shoves his way through. Looking around, he takes a deep breath. For the first time in his life, he is outside the fence without a team of Capitolite handlers. He'd never suspected it was this easy.

The wires _zing_ as Katniss climbs through and lets go of them. She walks on in silence, ignoring Haymitch as he looks around. When she's almost out of sight he begins to follow her again. The cries of birds and the rustling of small animals seem very loud around them.

"Well, here we are," she says, stopping and looking at the tree in front of them. He comes forward and stops beside her. All this way he's followed at her heels, neither of them speaking. He's kept his eyes on the ground, following her footprints and never letting his gaze stray above her calves. In return, she has not looked back even once. She's endured the heavy, trudging footsteps behind her and the rough sound of his breathing in the frosty air, and she has kept her eyes resolutely ahead. She always was braver than him.

The tree waits by itself in a small clearing, hemmed in on all sides by thorn bushes and brush and scrub trees. It is very tall, but the striking thing about it is its multitude of thick, twisting branches. It is winter-bare, and the bark it pitch black.

"Look," she whispers very softly. He does, and freezes beside her when he sees it. A single mockingjay is perched on one of those twisted limbs, its head cocked to the side as it regards them with one bright black eye. Both of them stare back, not daring to move or blink. Then Katniss looks over at him, a hint of a smile on her lips. For just a second she's on the verge of saying something. If she does, he'll give her hint of a smile back and nod. They'll watch until the bird flies away and then turn back and retrace their steps in the gathering dawn.

The spell breaks when their eyes meet, crashes and explodes in flames. Each sees themselves reflected back at them, and she draws away with a feline hiss of pain as he turns from her with a low growl.

"That's our branch," she says instead. "The one the mockingjay was on." She lets her shoulder bag slide down her arm and reaches in, producing two heavy coils of rope. Dropping the bag indifferently to the snow, she thrusts one of the coils at him. She doesn't look at him again, and he's grateful. Haymitch takes the rope, wrapping it around his hands and pulling at it.

"Katniss, wait." She ignores him, making for the tree with her head down. Haymitch shakes his head, kicks at the snow, and then goes after her because she's not giving him any choice. He's beginning to doubt there's any such thing as free will.

Catching up, he grabs her arm. "Katniss, goddamnit, _wait_ a minute."

She whirls around. She's very pale, but her gray eyes are dark and knowing and steady. "Don't you touch me. I think we're both filthy enough already," she says evenly.

He steps back with his hands raised, giving her his most mocking, sarcastic smile. "Don't flatter yourself, honey. Pregnant kids aren't my thing. Also, I really doubt you could afford me_._"

She looks back at him, blinking quickly. "Look, if you don't want to do this, that's fine. I thought… with everything… I thought you deserved the chance, I guess." She pauses, marshalling her thoughts. She'd never doubted he'd want to do this. She can hardly stand to be around him; seeing him for the first time after she figured it out was even worse than she'd expected. But dying alongside him seems right. He is, after everything, still some sort of family. In time, if not for Snow's fuckery, he might have become an older brother to her as he is to Peeta.

She steels herself and continues. "Go back home then, Haymitch. Don't interfere with me. I have to do this."

"So thoughtful of you," he drawls. He looks away, speaking to the ground at their feet. "Of course I want to. You can't even imagine…" Shivering, he turns away because looking at the ground just isn't sufficient anymore.

She swallows, and he hears her throat click. The coldness is gone from her voice when she gives him the few words that she has to offer. "Me, too. You can't imagine. I could never have imagined. What this is like…"

"We can't. After we're gone they'll go after Peeta."

"Don't you throw Peeta at me, not now. Anyway, they might not. I'm the problem. I'm the one they want to destroy. If I'm gone, maybe they'll leave him alone."

"Maybe," he mocks softly.

"I should have eaten those berries," she confides, looking up at the tree. "I don't know how I forgot how things are. I really thought we could beat them."

"Stupid, blind, animal hope. That's the sublime humor of it all now." And he does laugh, and for just a fleeting moment Katniss smiles. "Seventy-five years of schmucks like you and me telling ourselves 'I know it's an impossible situation, but I'm the _exception_. Oh no, they'll never get _me_.'" He performs this bit of skit with exaggerated earnestness, widening his eyes at her and nodding slightly, and quite against her will she laughs out loud.

"All of this is because of me," she affirms, a trace of mirth still in her voice. It mixes uneasily with the returning bitterness, and far off in the distance Haymitch thinks he hears approaching thunder.

"No, not all of it." He stops abruptly. He could tell her that her transmogrification into breeding stock was his idea. He could tell her that if she'd died he would have tried to make the same deal to save Peeta from Snow's machinations. If this is it, he might as well tell her that his own survival twenty-four years ago had ended up being far more ruinous than her trick with the berries.

He has nights when he wishes she had died. Without that love story (And that was his fault, too, his own damn fault. Peeta had started it, but he was the one who just had to keep pushing it), he would have had nothing to offer Snow other than himself. There would have been no deal. And he's an ass for thinking that way, an ass and everything else they say he is: selfish, immature, irresponsible, a drink-addled waste. But there are moments when he thinks he would throw the boy to the wolves if those wolves would just stop tearing at him.

He isn't even sure that he gives a damn about Peeta anymore. For a while there the kid had been sort of an enigma to him, like a puzzle his mind couldn't put down. How could anyone be that thoroughly _good_ and not make normal, shitty people like himself want to climb the walls? Almost at once, Peeta had distinguished himself from the ever-increasing circle of walking-dead kids that he remembers and regrets and counts on days when the liquor isn't enough. This one is going to give me nightmares, he'd thought- the screaming kind. Instead, Peeta had survived. And somewhere along the path from there to here, he'd become a source of strength.

Nothing good remains. Lately, Peeta's just the guy who reminds him how weak and pathetic he's become. And it's not really goodness anyway, is it? More like self-righteousness. Haymitch hates him for the pity he now sees in Peeta's looks, the care in his words and even in his movements. He's been weak most of his life: weak about the drink, weak about the kids he was supposed to help, weak in his fear of the Peacekeepers and his pure yellow-striped horror of Snow. It took Peeta to show him he was pitiful.

There are still days when he knows those two kids to be the closest he'll ever be able to come to having a family, and he knows protecting them is worth anything, or even everything. But the driving, all-consuming, dangerous _need_ to save them that forced him into Snow's office that day is only a distant memory, a bit hard to credit.

"I can't do this anymore," Katniss says. Her hand moves restlessly to her curved belly, darts away again. "I can't stand what's happening to me."

It's peaceful to have someone put it into words like that. And he wants to. She's shown him that he can die outside the fence, and _gods_, he wants to. But… Peeta. There's no way they'd let him alone. Even if Katniss dies, the Capitol will still have his parents and his brothers to use against him. He's young, handsome, and popular. He won't stand a chance.

Haymitch glances over at Katniss and shuffles the conflicting obligations that are pulling him downward like a millstone around his neck. His own survival without hers wouldn't save Peeta. Let Katniss escape? Or do whatever he has to do to protect Peeta?

Katniss is walking toward the tree again. She takes small steps now, stretching out her last moments, feeling the crunch of the frozen ground under her feet. These woods were always her only taste of freedom. Now they breathe for her, and sigh and ruffle her hair. Here was the only place her father didn't look exhausted and beaten. Here live the songs she dare not sing. Here, for a few fleeting moments, she existed outside the Capitol's reach.

She lays a hand on the dark surface of the tree where her father first spoke to her of freedom. For more than a week she's been dreaming of her father and of this tree. The only dreams she'd ever had of him before had been nightmares. She almost prefers those. She misses him so much lately.

Her father died hundreds of feet underground, in the dark, shut away from everything he'd ever loved. She bows her head and tries desperately to sense him near her.

"Can you climb?" she asks Haymitch, who is once more at her side.

"I've never tried," he tells her, looking up into the branches.

She considers him. He's not at all like her father. Is that why she really brought him, as a conduit? She thinks that might have been part of it. He's just Haymitch, though- unstable, abused, and all-but-destroyed. And… brave.

"Do this with me?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says. "They can't always win."

She reaches out and does something entirely unexpected but wholly essential for both of them. She takes his gloved hand in hers. "Last time pays for all." She lets go. "Just follow me." And she begins to climb.

Haymitch watches her for a moment, looping the rope around his shoulders as she has done. When he thinks he has it, he starts to follow her.

It's harder than it looks, but the bark is rough and by feeling around he finds places to dig in his fingers and the toes of his boots. And the branches start about ten feet up, giving him places to rest his weight. His ankles and arms ache sharply by the time he pulls himself up beside Katniss. The branch they're sitting on is thicker than the span of his shoulders. Looking down, he judges they've climbed at least fifty feet, maybe more.

Katniss holds out her rope to show him the slipknot she's tied into it. "Do you want to do your own?" she asks. "I'll watch and make sure it's right."

He understands that she's trying to give him back control. There've been too few choices, too many commands. Even in 12, too many instances of just assuming he can't, as though somehow being raped has eroded his ability to make his own decisions. And now that he's followed Katniss into these woods and followed her up this tree, she's offering to guide him through tying his own noose. So much for free will. On the other hand, at least she cares enough to try.

He unwraps the rope and hands it over. "You do it."

She efficiently ties a slipknot into his rope while he looks off through the branches. There's no reason to watch this. Tying knots will very shortly become useless knowledge for him, along with everything else.

He tries to think of Kelsee, the girl he'd once believed he would marry. But the only image of her his mind has left after all these years is the one of her crying, knowing she was about to be killed because of him. What a fool he'd been.

No. He shakes his head hard. Not that voice. Not now.

Effie, then. Think of her, safe in her apartment, beautiful and vibrant. Effie flitting from moment to moment as though the world were a field of bright and fragrant flowers. She was so amusing when she was angry that he would wile away hours deliberately provoking her. And then somehow he'd always feel compelled to be nice to her for a day or two, as if he needed to apologize or something. Not that he'd ever apologize.

For once his mind cooperates and settles on the image of Effie. He closes his eyes and he smiles.

Katniss has tied the ends of both ropes around the branch in secure double knots. "Ready?" she asks.

"Yeah." He fingers the noose and the slips it over his head, pulling the knot snug against his skin. That's one thing they'd never done- put a collar on him. But it had probably been only a matter of time.

Katniss slips her own noose on, pulling her braid out over it. As she pulls it tight she thinks of the first song her father taught her, and how his voice had made her think that the whole rest of the world must fall silent to listen.

"One," she says, catching Haymitch's gray eyes with her own.

"Two," he says, and his hand twitches as though he would reach out to her if only his mind would allow it.

"Three," she says. She slides off the branch, falling away from him. Together, he thinks. I don't want to die alone. And then he pushes off after her.

There's a sharp pain and a cracking sound as the rope pulls taut, and then all he's aware of is motion and being unable to breathe. The whole world moves around him, spinning and swaying like a gyroscope. Lights flash before his eyes, and then everything darkens. Coherent thought is impossible here at the end of the rope. He has no name, no past, no self. The only word left in his mind clangs around and rebounds in his ears. Alone, alone, alone, alone. And even that is only meaningless sounds.

Every living creature dies alone.


End file.
